


I Want You to Want Me

by bookishandbossy



Category: 10 Things I Hate About You (1999), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 10 Things I Hate About You AU, Don't worry, F/M, Fluff, Gen, High School, Rom-com, and a tiny bit of angst, antagonist Ward, general fun times - Freeform, nice! Raina, the tiniest bit, who's still plotting world domination in her spare time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookishandbossy/pseuds/bookishandbossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo Fitz thinks that Jemma Simmons may just be the most perfect girl he's ever met, and Jemma Simmons thinks that she may like him a lot more than she's supposed to.  Only Jemma can't date until her sister Skye, the hacktivist terror of SHIELD High, does...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Burn, I Pine, I Perish

**Author's Note:**

> Major kudos and a young Heath Ledger of her very own to notapepper/typhanni for beta-ing this!

“You must adopt a warrior mentality in order to survive,” the guidance counselor tells Leo Fitz solemnly as she hands him his schedule. There's a name plaque on her desk that reads Ms. May, what looks like a samurai sword behind her desk, and an illustrated guide to tai chi hanging on her wall. “Swift as a coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon, with all the strength of a raging fire, mysterious as the dark side of the moon.”

“Okay,” he says slowly and waits for her to say something more. Welcome to the school? Avoid the meat in the cafeteria? Good morning? But Ms. May just nods, fingers already flying over her keyboard, and he guesses that it's his cue to leave. So he slings his backpack over his shoulder, tugs anxiously at the sleeves of his plaid shirt, and heads out into the battlefield.

Fitz has been to a lot of different high schools in the past three years, as his mom got transferred from base to base, and by now he's pretty sure that he has all the different types memorized. Jocks, drama geeks, pretty popular people, future Ivy-Leaguers, gamer guys (and girls), cowboys, stoners masquerading as aspiring Rastafarians, band kids, coffee freaks...But he's never seen anything like _her_ and he stops still in the middle of the courtyard just to marvel at her. Honey-brown hair floating around her shoulders, freckles scattered across her pale skin, amber eyes, cherry-printed sundress that flares out around her hips and clings in all the right places.

“What group is she in?” he breathes to his office-appointed guide, Alphonso “call me Mack” Mackenzie.

“The out of your league group.”

“Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!” he protests. “The metaphorical torches, of course.”

“Trust me, my man, it's not a good idea. She has two default settings: science and shoes. Girls like Jemma Coulson never end up with guys like us. They end up with the Grant Wards of the world,” Mack gestures towards a guy with dark hair and an impressive jawline lounging on a bench, who waves to Jemma as she walks by. “And you watch from the sidelines and mope around and eventually, you move on.”

“Nope,” Fitz shakes his head. “Definitely not moving on.” She vanishes into the distance but he can still see her when he shuts his eyes, like his brain has already wired itself around the image of her. “She just seems so _good_. So bright, so happy—it's like she always sees the best of the world. She's completely pure. I didn't mean that in a creepy way,” he adds quickly. “But she's not jaded, she's not cynical, it's like nothing's ever dared to hurt her. She's like sunshine.”

“You got all of this from five seconds watching her?” Mack attempts to stare Fitz down but, despite his superior height, Fitz outlasts him and he sighs. “Okay. But just this once. All I know is that she tutors people in chemistry.”

“That's perfect!” Fitz exclaims.

“You're not even taking chemistry. Are you?”

“I can make it up as I go along,” he says brightly. “I'm a former child prodigy.”

 

Someone is looking at Jemma. But then, someone is always looking at Jemma. Sometimes she thinks that it's exhausting, but then she remembers that she likes being adored. She likes getting waves and smiles from everyone she meets in the hall, she likes getting the best seats during lunch and during every class, she likes the promise that she'll be homecoming queen her senior year, she likes knowing that she can dictate the fashion trends for the next five months. But some days, she just wonders why being adored has to involve being quite so many things, something different for everyone she meets, and why each and every one of those things seems to be so exhausting.

“Jemma, he waved at us!” Raina hisses.

“Who?” she asks absently, plastering on a bright smile and tossing her hair over one shoulder.

“Grant Ward!” Raina emphasizes every single syllable in his name, drawing them out to make up for the fact that it's really not a very long name. “We need to wait three seconds before we wave back. I've calculated it—three seconds is just short enough that he knows we saw him, but not so short that we seem over-enthusiastic.” Raina and Jemma figured out how to become popular around seventh grade, using an elaborate series of formulas and hypotheses, and they haven't looked back since.

Jemma gives Grant a little flirty wave back and he winks at her in a way that manages to show off his chiseled cheekbones. (How is that even biologically possible?) He really is an impressive example of the species, Jemma thinks. She's done all the calculations, even accounting for the butterflies in her stomach when he says hi to her in the hallways, and according to the math, they're a perfect match. Their popularity and attractiveness levels match up—he's even the exact right amount of tall to complement her—and maybe she hasn't ever really had a conversation with him, but that doesn't _really_ matter. They can always have a conversation after he's asked her to the prom and given her his letter jacket.

As she's walking with Raina towards the bus stop, a shiny BMW pulls up beside them and there's Grant, mirrored sunglasses on his head, one hand resting on the steering wheel (is that really safe driving practices?), and giving them one of the grins that made him the face of antacids in three different counties. “Would either of you pretty young things like a ride in this fine vehicle?” he asks and (even though that's really a terrible line), both Raina and Jemma squeal in delight and hop in. “Hey, hey, hey,” Grant protests. “Feet off the leather. It's Italian.” Raina giggles some more but Jemma's already off in her own mind.

She sighs happily. After all, she's got everything planned out for complete social domination. And the fact that her dad doesn't let either her or Skye date? That's just a teeny tiny detail.


	2. Don't Give a Damn 'Bout My Bad Reputation

“Skye,” Ms. May doesn't even look up from her computer screen. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Fury sent me. He said he couldn't take version number fifteen of my speech against our male-dominated English curriculum. But, on the other hand, he did say he'd be willing to stage a revolt with me if I extended my speech to include James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison too,” Skye says casually as she slides into her chair in May's office. “We should start picketing any day now.”

“Miles Lydon is recovering from his surgery quite well, you know. The doctors say that he'll almost definitely be able to have children,” May says as she flips open a file.

“I’m part of the school welcoming committee. My knee met his balls.” Skye shrugs and leans back in the chair. “Anyway, I'm here, ready to be advised. Counsel away.”

“People commonly describe you as...” May flips through a bulging disciplinary file, putting on her glasses to squint down at the page.

“Rebellious? Edgy? Most likely to overthrow the establishment and set up a new utopian hacktivist regime?” Skye says hopefully.

“Strangely enough, it all sounds very Shakespearean. I see a few ‘unfit for any place but hell’, two ‘cream-faced loons’, and one ‘I do desire that we may be better strangers’. Interesting ” May pauses. “Remember that the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.” Skye waits for more advice, per usual, and no more comes, per usual. Finally, she sighs, grabs her button-emblazoned denim jacket and laptop case, and heads out of the office.

“Give my regards to Detective Inspector Hill,” she calls as she leaves. May's been writing a series of gritty crime thrillers, featuring Detective Inspector Maria Hill, the tough-as-nails longtime cop with a heart of gold, for as long as Skye's been ending up in her office. Skye's particularly fond of the chapter where the detective goes after a Norwegian master criminal with delusions of grandeur and knocks him out with his own staff.

When she swings the door open, it nearly hits a grumpy-looking guy in a leather jacket, scrunched up in a chair and absentmindedly clicking a lighter on and off. “Oi,” he protests. “You nearly gave me a concussion with that door.”

“Hey,” Skye says back and rolls her eyes at him, making sure to bump his chair as she moves out into the hallway. “You nearly burned down the door with that lighter.” She's gone before he can say anything else in that ridiculous (ridiculously cute) accent but she can still hear May calling him in.

“Mr. Hunter,” May says and sighs, one of her signature “they pay me way too little to do this” sighs. “It says here that you attempted to cause a riot by taking off your shirt in the cafeteria. It also says here that you were unsuccessful.” Skye stifles a giggle and strides away. The trials and tribulations of guys like him may be temporarily entertaining, but she has the one true love of her life waiting for her in the parking lot: Lola, her cherry red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette.

And her best friend, not quite leaning against it with his nose stuck in his copy of Henry V, turning the pages eagerly like he doesn't already know what happens and eating one of his disgusting protein bars. “Another day protesting the establishment?” Trip asks sunnily and flips another page. “Overthrown any patriarchal regimes yet?”

“Do you know why I’m such a fabulous friend? Because I still think that joke is funny.” Skye teases as she unlocks the door and lovingly pats her car. Her dad gave her Lola for her sixteenth birthday, after a long series of lectures about responsibility and a few tears (his, not hers), and now they’re kind of inseparable. Skye just loves the way that she feels when she’s driving down the street, namely much more badass than she really is. Throw in a black leather jacket, a pair of sunglasses, a stereo that actually works, and she’d be ready to take down at least 12% of the establishment. “Am I giving you a ride again today?” she asks. “You should finish that thing before you get in the car. Lola doesn't like it when people eat in her.”

“Lola likes me. I'm pretty sure that she—Skye, you might not want to look to your left for a next few minutes.” Even Trip's voice sounds like he's wincing. So of course, Skye looks, and all of a sudden all she can see is red. Deep, dark, vow of eternal revenge mad. Because there's Grant Ward, smirking away in his sports car as he plays rap music at top volume and expects the other cars to magically clear out of his way, and there's her little sister in his backseat. Skye feels her heart rate speed up and her hands curl into fists at her sides, and more than anything, she wants to race over there, punch Grant right in his perfectly shaped nose, pull her little sister out of his backseat, and keep Jemma away from anything that might hurt her, to tell her that she deserves so much better than people who only like her for as long as she does what they expect of her. Objectively, rationally, she knows that Jemma is sixteen, not six, and that she can take care of herself and that, most of the time, Jemma actually seems like she’s the older one. But when Skye shuts her eyes, all she can see is Jemma inspecting blades of grass through a magnifying glass in their backyard, Jemma valiantly making her way through _War and Peace_ the summer that she was twelve and Skye was thirteen, Jemma insisting that their parents let her alphabetize all their bookshelves, Jemma mixing up salt and sugar when she tried to make brownies for the school bake sale. Jemma, who drives her insane most of the time but who's still her not-so-little sister, and who Skye still wants to protect more than anything. She still remembers the speech that her dad gave her about being a big sister, after he announced that he and Audrey were adopting another kid, and seeing Jemma climb out of the car, wrapped in a bright blue cardigan and carrying a book that was bigger than her. Skye had taken her responsibilities way too seriously and instantly insisted on showing Jemma the entire house, including the all-important cookie jar.

She should tell Jemma. She really should. It's just that, even now, she feels embarrassed even thinking about it, remembering how young and dumb and worthless she felt back then. Remembering how much she didn’t know. So instead Skye grits her teeth and revs up Lola and slams her foot down on the gas pedal. Hard. There's a flurry of honking from behind her and she spots a tall guy on a motorcycle behind her grinning down at his phone. “Take a selfie, then drive,” Skye shouts and pulls out so fast that she leaves black tire marks behind her.

“Hey, are you okay?” Fitz asks Mack afterward, watching the car speed off into the distance.

“Just another encounter with the terror of SHIELD High. That's your girl's sister, you know.” Mack winces as he inspects the handles of his motorcycle for imaginary dents, ignoring the fact that Skye’s car was a good three feet away. 

“She can't be Jemma's sister. No way,” Fitz says firmly. But, glancing after the girl in the car, who doesn't even bother to look back at the school as she drives away, he thinks that there's something about the determined set of her mouth, or about the confidence that radiates off her, that reminds him just a little of Jemma.

Half an hour later, standing in her living room, Jemma can't believe that Skye's her sister either. If Skye had sisterly bonding feelings towards her, she definitely wouldn't have told their dad that Grant Ward gave Jemma a ride home today, she definitely wouldn't have described Grant as a “a lump of muscle with the brain power of a caveman”, and she definitely, definitely wouldn't have triggered a Phil Coulson Signature Anti-Boy Rant.

“Do you know what those boys are after, Jemma? One thing.” Her dad dramatically waves a finger at her. “They only want one thing and as soon as they get it, after having seduced a girl away from her home and loving family, they abandon them in the streets, leaving the girl destitute, desperate, and probably already pregnant. A spiral of poverty, danger, misery, and--”

“Dad,” Jemma interrupts “Have you been watching Hallmark movies again? We already told you that “based on a true story” really means “based on a really cheesy idea someone in the writers room made up to get a raise”. Skye may be a dangerous driver, but neither of us have been sucked into cults or engaging in dangerous choking games or--”

“I'm an excellent driver,” Skye protests, glaring at her. “I've never even gotten a ticket.”

“That's because you scare all the policemen off,” Jemma snaps and turns her attention to her dad, smiling sweetly. Time to try a different tactic. “Daddy, all the other girls in school are dating. It wouldn't help my campaign to be student body president, prom queen, and valedictorian next year if I was seen date-less and you want me to achieve my goals, don't you?”

“And if all the other girls in school decided to go cliff diving, would you do that too? Besides, your sister doesn't date,” he says smugly and gestures to Skye like she's some shining paragon of virtue, conveniently forgetting the fact that he had to attend a five hour parent-teacher conference (in _high school_ , where parent-teacher conferences are as out of style as bleached denim) when Skye kicked Miles Lydon in the balls. Jemma wants to wail with frustration but then she remembers that she’s about twice as likely to get what she wants if she reminds their dad that she’s supposed to be the mature one. And actually acts like the mature one. So she takes a deep breath and smiles again.

“Skye doesn’t date because she’s...made alternate lifestyle choices. Like antagonizing everyone,” Jemma adds under her breath, then recovers. “And that’s totally okay. We’re different people and we want different things. And we both know what we’re capable of handling.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Skye narrows her eyes at Jemma. 

“Nothing,” Jemma sighs. Objectively, she knows that Skye’s just being overprotective. But she already has her dad worrying about her on a regular basis, and if anyone needs to be worried about, it’s Skye, the one who accidentally-on-purpose took out the school’s power grid and nearly got investigated by the FBI.

“I am older, you know. I know what I’m talking about,” Skye says and crosses her arms across her chest.

“Everyone knows that you’re older, because you mention it every time we have an argument,” Jemma counters and tries to practice her yoga breathing. (Raina swears by it.) “And I’m sure that your extra ten months were just filled with life experiences, but I’m not you. We’re not going to make the same kind of mistakes.”

“You don’t know that, Jemma. You just assume that everyone’s nice, and then when they inevitably screw you over, you won’t know what to do.” 

“I’m not a baby!” Jemma says indignantly. She is very nearly a genius--she’s been tested. “ Stop treating me like one! And if you’d just trust me, instead of talking to me like I don’t know anything...You’re hardly a shining example of maturity and responsibility yourself!”

“Well at least I’m not--”

“Girls!” their dad shouts, running his hands through his thinning hair. “Girls, girls, girls. We don't want Mrs. Hand from number eight calling the police again.” They both go silent. A helicopter landed in their backyard the last time that their neighbor called the police, and they spent the next two hours trying to explain to two men in black that the shaking noise had just been Skye slamming the door after an argument with Jemma. “Okay, time for a new rule. Jemma can date,” Phil takes a dramatic pause, clearly savoring the moment. “When Skye does.”

“What?!”


	3. We're Screwed!

“Are you sure that you need help with chemistry? We're already on chapter sixty and normally I have to stop around chapter five with the people I tutor.” Jemma is looking at him suspiciously as she sets another sheaf of notes down on the table, pulling her hair up into a bun and sticking a pencil through it with the other hand. “When I took this class, Dr. Banner didn't even get to this stuff. He did have that nasty little lab accident that year, so...” She shrugs and takes a sip of her tea, and he's too mesmerized by the movement of her throat as she swallows to reply. “Maybe we could keep on going anyway—it's really quite interesting,” she smiles at him, almost shyly. “I usually don't get to discuss this sort of thing with anyone else. Most people just want my help memorizing the periodic table. Or my class notes...Anyway, should we set up a session for next Wednesday?”

 

“I was actually thinking that maybe we could find an, um...an alternate venue?” He can do this, Fitz tells himself. _He can do this._ Fitz takes a deep breath and go on. “It doesn't really seem like many people use this library for studying—I'm pretty sure there's a rock band practicing in the corner over there—and there's this really good exhibit at the Natural History Museum about natural neurotoxins and I thought that maybe you'd like to go with me?” He says the last few words very fast and all together, so they come out sounding more like the noises an unhappy small dog makes than a human sentence, but Jemma (can he technically call her that?) seems to understand him anyway.

“You're asking me out,” she says slowly.

“Um, yes?” If Fitz looks at her now, he thinks that he might actually implode from embarrassment. So instead he stares at the carpet and tries to calculate the precise angles of the pattern of triangles that runs across it. She's going to say no, he thinks, of course she's going to say no. When he calculated the precise probability that she would say yes, it was a frighteningly small number that he doesn't remember. (That's a lie—he remembers it down to the eighth decimal place.)

“That's so sweet,” Jemma blurts out, almost like she can't help saying it, and she just barely manages to hide her surprise. That's not what she meant to say and Jemma Simmons never says anything without considering it from every angle first. But instead she's smiling at him, quick and bright and shy in a way that she thought she'd forgotten, and there's a fluttering feeling in her stomach that's very confusing. She thinks stop at it as fiercely as she can, and the fluttering feeling promptly doubles.

“Really?” Fitz finally lifts his eyes up from the carpet to look at her and they're wonderfully blue. Not that she's noticing them.

“Yes, really.” Now Jemma's blushing. Not on purpose. This is...odd. A scientific anomaly. A scientific anomaly that has no place in her plan for social domination. _Back on task, Jemma._ “That would be great but I, erm, I can't. My dad has this rule that I can't date until my sister dates and since my sister thinks that high school boys are major contributors to the decline of civilization...plus, I'm 87.4% sure that everyone at SHIELD High is terrified of her. I've even calculated that there's at least a 25% chance that I will die alone with forty cats because my sister refuses to participate in normal teenage life.” Jemma slumps back in her chair, sulking, and Fitz thinks he's never seen anyone do it so adorably.

“I'm sure there's someone she'd like to date. Or who'd like to date her? Some people really want a partner who...” Fitz hesitates, remembering Skye tearing down flyers advertising the prom, lecturing the cheerleaders running the bake sale for the football team about concussion rates for a full half hour until they moved their table, smiting any guy who gets within ten feet of her with a death glare. “Who challenges them. It'd be a constant adrenaline rush. Like downhill skiing.”

“So you think we should start with the ski team?” Jemma asks and leans forward.

“Maybe if your sister's into fondue...anyway, it can be like an experiment. A way of seeing which substances can stabilize a volatile compound,” he says carefully. “We can work through all the guys in the school using a quadrant method, use a preliminary set of questions to weed out the weak, then carefully begin testing individuals. We could even make graphs!”

“And you'd do all of this for me?” Her stomach's doing that stupid fluttering thing again. She tells herself that it's mostly about the graphs. And about a new friend who actually seems like he might be able to keep up with her. (Because of course she can't actually date him, can she? Not if she wants to keep on being universally adored.) And she'll just ignore the fact that, for the first time ever, she's met someone who flusters her just as much as she flusters him, making her head spin and her heart speed up, and eventually, she'll be in control again.

“Who wouldn't?” he says it like it's so simple and Jemma thinks determinedly about Grant's cheekbones. Grant's cheekbones are the goal here. Aren't they? Luckily, the bell rings and she's able to flee before her traitorous mouth can say anything else, scooping her books up into her little leather backpack—she can only fit about half of what she needs into it, but Raina practically turns green with envy every time she sees it—and promising to message him later about the Plan.

As Jemma rushes out of the library, she can't help glancing back to wave at him. Fitz grins at her like she's the sun.

 

“I can't believe that I'm helping you with this,” Mack groans to Fitz the next day, slouching down in his seat and trying to look less tall. It doesn't work. “But you invoked the Princess Bride clause and so now I'm with you until the inevitable bad end, Turbo.” Fitz opens his mouth to protest. “I'm helping you find a guy for Skye Coulson, you let me call you Turbo.”

“It doesn't make much sense as a nickname,” Fitz points out. Mack just gives him a look, the kind that's meant to remind him of the day he talked about Jemma for three hours, twenty-five minutes, and forty-seven seconds straight (Mack had a timer running), and he sighs. “So Jemma's going to collect some information from the inside, like the kind of guy that her sister might go for, and we're going to find some initial...candidates. Like candidates for testing a new drug. And the drug is Skye. Not that a person can be a drug. She's a--”

“I have a bunch of guys lined up,” Mack says before Fitz can confuse himself even more. “The cream of the crop.” He doesn't say of what crop. Five minutes later, they're walking along the back of the school, down an endless set of stairs, and into a dark alleyway (as dark as you can get in sun-drenched Southern California), where there's a group of guys staring up at them oddly. Fitz gets the sense that not many people come out here and that that's how the guys, whether they're stoned or just terrified of human interaction, like it. “Hey there,” Mack says and tries to look friendly. “My man Fitz and I are conducting a survey here. Would any of you be potentially interested in dating Skye Coulson?”

There's a moment of silence. Then, panic breaks out. Later, Fitz writes down all the different reactions, so they can keep an official record of everything, or just so he can have something to laugh at late at night. His entry goes something like this:  
Donnie Gill—Stared at us awkwardly, muttered something about hell freezing over, stared at us some more.  
Idaho—Does he even have a last name? Who names their kid Idaho? Took off in the opposite direction as soon as he heard Skye's name.  
Jasper Sitwell—Screamed. Loudly. And repeatedly.  
Ian Quinn—Made a bad joke about goats. Luckily, his pager went off before he got to the punchline. (The 90's must have been calling.)  
All 13 Koenig brothers—A collective no.  
Results so far—Negative.

“I think we're going about this the wrong way,” Fitz says afterward as they're filling out review sheets in history. “We thought we had to find someone really desperate, who'd take any date they could get, but apparently no one's that desperate. Besides, it's _Jemma's_ sister...” Even if Skye isn't anything like Jemma, she still deserves the best. Or, at the very least, someone who can string more than three sentences together and use feminism correctly in a sentence. “We need to find someone that she'd actually want to date. And who isn't terrified of her.”

“I once heard her refer to high school guys as the unwashed hordes,” Mack says doubtfully.

“Mr. Rogers, I'd like to point out something about the American Revolution,” an English voice drawls from the back of the classroom. Everyone swivels around to look at Lance Hunter, leaning back in his chair and trying his best to smirk. Someone, probably one of the countless girls who has a crush on Mr. Rogers, gasps. “You keep on mentioning liberty and equality and inalienable rights, but wasn't it really all about a bunch of people from Boston refusing to pay their taxes? Compared to other subjects of the British Empire, the colonists actually had it pretty good. Isn't this just an example of the beginnings of American entitlement?”

Someone else gasps as Hunter mock bows and sweeps out of the classroom.

“I think we've found our guy.”


	4. Pick You Up at Eight?

“But how do we get him to date Skye?” Fitz wonders. “We can't just smash their faces together and make them kiss.”

“I think that Hunter might be the kind of guy who needs some incentive. Financial incentive. Which means we need a backer—someone with more money than intelligence,” Mack says slowly and, like they're in a movie, both their heads swivel to look at Grant Ward, who's holding court in a corner and attempting to eat an orange peel while the masses cheer him on.

“No,” Fitz groans. “Nononononono.” He loses the argument.

 

Lance Hunter has never eaten a live anything. Or competed on the professional rodeo circuit. Or associated with members of the mob. But people like to think he has, and he likes it when people are too intimidated to attempt to recruit him for activities that involve school spirit. The last time that he showed school spirit, he was in preschool and the teacher had to comfort him when a pretty blonde girl named Bobbi rejected his offer to finger paint together and he burst into tears. Those were dark days.

So now Lance avoids anything that really requires enthusiasm. Besides complaining—he is a bloody fabulous complainer, if he says so himself. It, combined with the black leather jacket and the scowl, tends to keep people where he wants them. Namely far, far away. Which in no way explains why Grant Ward has just come over to his bench, sat down, and, worst of all, started talking.

Lance stares at him, in the hope that he'll go away. It doesn't work. Lance stares harder, scowling, and it continues not to work. Grant is babbling on and on about some girl and her sister and (Lance is not sure how they got here) his signature modeling look that “brings in the chicks”. The number of fucks that Lance gives is rapidly approaching negative territory.

“Look, what do you want?” he says finally, when it's clear that Grant is here to stay.

“Do you see that girl?” Grant points over to where a dark haired girl is typing furiously on her laptop, her gym clothes dyed black. “You should date her.” Mr. Barton, the PE teacher, taps on the girl's shoulder and offers her a bow and quiver full of arrows. The girl glares at him, grabs the bow, and fires three arrows straight into the center of the target. The fourth arrow neatly cuts her classmate's ponytail in half. “You guys can scowl at people together,” Grant adds.

“Why do you care who I date?” Lance asks. “Do you win a bet and get to make someone eat a live duck or something if I risk life and limb and go out on a date with her? I kind of like not being punctured with arrows.”

“I'm going to date her sister,” Grant says it like there's no chance the girl's going to say no, and Lance is seriously contemplating telling him to go back to the Stone Age. “But I can't date Jemma until Skye dates someone, so if you just take her to the movies or to a protest or to whatever people like you do...”

“Not my problem.”

“I can make it your problem. Seventy-five dollars a date.” Grant fans out a wad of bills like he's in a gangster movie and Lance hesitates. Because he doesn't want to be that guy—he really doesn't want to be that guy—but his family's never had much money and he's an absolute sucker for the wistful look his little sister Izzy gives him when she sees something that she really wants. (Last week, it was a Ninja Barbie.) And Grant’s smirking at him like he thinks he can’t do it and that pisses him off more than Chelsea football club winning anything. And, glancing over at the gi—Skye, looking better than anyone should in dyed black gym clothes as she asks Mr. Barton why they've been doing the archery unit for the past three years, he thinks that she might be the kind of problem he wouldn't mind having. 

“Eighty. Plus you pay for gas,” he says and Grant winces. “The heart wants what it wants.” Grant hands it over and Lance struts across the field. Time to conquer, he tells himself. It’s the eye of the tiger. The thrill of the fight. He has confidence in sunshine, he has confidence in rain--bloody hell, he’s using _The Sound of Music_ as motivation. Why is he using _The Sound of Music_ as motivation? Fuck, he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Hey there,” he says and leans over the girl’s shoulder, deliberately deepening his accent. Girls love the accent. “You can overthrow my system anytime.” She sighs hugely and looks up at him, trying to look menacing, but Lance knows that trick by heart and he just stays there, grinning charmingly at her. “Somebody get me a human rights lawyer, because being without you is a cruel and unusual punishment,” he adds. She presses her lips together in a firm line and turns her eyes back to her screen. “I don’t wanna stop protesting, but you’re absolutely arresting?” he tries and wonders if he can lay the accent on even thicker. Finally, she shuts her laptop with an angry snap and glares up at him again, but he thinks that she might be trying not to laugh.

“Seriously? That was the best thing you could come up with?” Skye says and gestures to her laptop. “Nothing computer-y? No ‘Are you wi-fi? Because I’m really feeling a connection’? If you’re going to go with a cheesy pick-up line, at least go for one that makes sense..”

“Those were great pick-up lines,” he protests, voice getting higher and higher before he remembers that he’s supposed to be be charming her. “Classics.”

“Oh please. I could do better pick-up lines in my sleep.” she scoffs. Well. That’s just rude. 

 

From across the field, Fitz lowers his binoculars as Lance storms off in a huff and winces. “Phase one appears to have gone...boom.”

“Is that a sign that we should stop messing around with other people’s love lives?” Mack says hopefully.

“Nope,” Fitz shakes his head vehemently. “It just means that he needs our help.” And with that, he’s off, sprinting across the field to catch up with Lance as Mack follows at a leisurely pace (which really means about as fast as Fitz can run) and shouts something about not wanting to piss off any members of the mafia. When they finally catch up with him, Fitz is gasping for breath, Mack is still muttering something about sleeping with the fishes, and Lance just looks very confused. “Hi,” Fitz manages to say, and promptly goes into another coughing fit. “That didn’t go very well, did it? With Skye Coulson?”

“And?” Lance squints at them, looking even more confused.

“We can help you. Because we kind of engineered all that. Former child prodigy,” Fitz says modestly.

“What he means is that, because he has the world’s biggest thing for Skye’s sister Jemma, and Jemma can’t date until Skye dates, he’s trying to get you guys together. Grant Ward is just a front for the money. Which you probably know all about from your--”

“Anyway, we can give you insight into the wild world of Skye Coulson,” Fitz interrupts, before the mafia can get into the picture. “Because we have an inside source.”

 

“Right,” Jemma says. “I’ve compiled a list of everything my sister has ever mentioned liking.” She has a thick blue notebook labeled _Operation The Skye is Falling (In Love)_ and she looks way too excited and Fitz thinks it’s perfect.

“I think we can eliminate some of the early data points,” he peers over her shoulder at Jemma’s neat handwriting.

“Exactly! Everything from about elementary school to--”

“The end of middle school is essentially moot. I don’t think that--”

“Lance is going to be able to woo her with My Little Ponies. So therefore we’ll just--”

“Focus on the last five years. Leaving room for outliers,” Fitz says with satisfaction and grins at her. “Was that...did we just...is that going to be our thing?”

“I think it might,” Jemma replies, and ignores the way that her stomach flips at the thought of them having a thing. Not that kind of thing. A friendship thing. “So where do you think we should start with Lance’s crash course in my sister?”

 

“This is not an alien planet,” Lance announces and glares at the screen as Captain Kirk pulls out his phaser and rallies his men. “That is Southern California. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone hiking there.” They both shush him immediately.

“Snark--good. Making fun of Scotty--not so much. Skye loves Scotty,” Jemma informs him. “If you’re going to make fun of anyone, go with Kirk.” She waits. Lance just nods. “Well...aren’t you going to write that down? We gave you the notebook for a reason!”

Lance grumbles under his breath, but he writes it down. Jemma and Fitz exchange a discreet high five.

 

“Of course I’ve read Lord of the Rings,” Lance says defensively. “When I wasn’t too busy being awesome.”

“Right then. Tell me how Aragorn and Arwen are related?” Fitz asks, pen poised over the official experimental notebook.

“They’re not? Because that would be weird?” Lance makes a lovely (so awful that it’s almost lovely) face.

“They’re cousins. Sixty-three times removed. Back to the books, sir.”

 

“Today we’re going to explore Taylor Swift’s evolution as an artist,” Jemma explains and aims her laser pointer at the chart. “You should already have listened to the playlist we’ve created for you, which we believe is an accurate representation of her oeuvre, and read a selection of articles from the past five years, detailing her rise and accomplishments.”

“Your sister likes Taylor Swift?” Lance looks doubtful.

“Since the first album came out. She’s played “Blank Space” approximately 378 times since the album came out,” Jemma (just barely) winces. Her bedroom shares a wall with Skye’s and sometime around the twenty-fifth rendition of “Blank Space”, she invested in a pair of enormous noise-canceling headphones. It’s not that Jemma doesn’t like the song, she’s just fairly convinced that there isn’t anything in the world she’d enjoy listening to 378 times. 

“I’m not sure if I got to that one,” Lance mumbles and tries to avoid meeting their eyes. Jemma sends Fitz a meaningful look and mouths something, and Fitz sprints out of the room. “I might have, um...I might have stopped the first time that she started talking about Tim McGraw.”

“Right, then. On to Plan B,” Jemma says crisply. Fitz reappears, nearly buckling in half under the weight of a bright pink karaoke machine, and grins maniacally at Lance.

“I don’t do karaoke. I don’t even like karaoke.” Lance is practically turning pale with horror.

“Nonsense. It’s educational.”

 

“Thai food was very five months ago, Jemma. Are we trying to bring it back in?” Raina asks as she reapplies her lipstick. “Or did you just have a craving for pad see ew? Either way, I’m there.”

“Half the pad see ew, half the Plan. I already told you about the Plan!” Jemma says when Raina gives her a blank look, and reaches across to swipe Raina’s eyeshadow palette. (They’re all Jemma’s colors anyway, Raina just carries them around in case Jemma forgets something at home, and Jemma does the same for her. It was a scientifically informed decision.) “Since my dad came up with his new Skye-centric rule, despite my mature and well-informed arguments--”

“I told you that you should have cried.”

“Anyway, Fitz and I found the perfect guy for her and we’ve been training him. Today is supposed to be Thai food, but I can’t just go with Fitz and Hunter by myself--I’ve calculated the odds that my dad has bribed the waiters at our favorite Thai place to tell him if either one of us ever comes in with a guy. And they’re not good.” Jemma sighs. Her dad is just a little too attached to his CIA days, and a little too fond of recreating his old network of informants. “So therefore, we go out for lunch and run into Fitz and Hunter completely by accident, and Fitz and I teach Hunter how to eat massaman curry without making faces. Fitz has this great plan--”

“Fitz is one of the people you’re tutoring, right?” Raina doesn’t wait for her to answer. “You talk about him a lot.”

“Not really.” Jemma can already feel the blush creeping up her neck.

“Really? Because you talked about him yesterday too. And the day before that. And the day before that. I know what classes he’s taking, and his favorite movies, and that he burns bacon and sets off fire alarms but is a surprisingly good baker. I know that he likes monkeys and prosciutto and physics and I’ve never even met Leo Fitz. I know all of this because you can’t stop talking about him,” Raina says smugly, giving the mirror a sly little smile. “And also because I know everything. Clearly.”

“I really don’t talk about him that much,” Jemma protests. “We’re friends, we plot together, he’s just _Fitz_.” There, that sounds convincing. Completely convincing. She even believes it herself. Then she giggles. She has no idea why, she tells herself.

“Oh my god,” Raina caps her lipstick decisively and turns to look at her. “You like him. You have an actual, real crush on someone.”

“I have actual, real crushes,” Jemma insists. “I’ve already told you that I like Grant. And his cheekbones.”

“Your eyes glaze over whenever Grant talks for longer than five seconds. Impressive as those cheekbones are. Come on,” Raina loops her arm through Jemma’s. “Let’s go accidentally-on-purpose meet your boy. I suddenly find myself craving spring rolls.”


	5. Just Can't Get Enough of You Baby

After Lance eats the spiciest thing on the menu and only complains twice, Jemma and Fitz present him with a certificate and beam at him like proud parents. It has a gold seal with Skye’s face on it, and Jemma feels the need to point out that Fitz designed the seal at least twice. Then Fitz mentions that the whole course was her idea, and they just descend into complimenting each other. Lance thinks that they’re disgustingly adorable.

“You’re ready now,” Jemma chirps. “You just have to go out and get the girl!” 

“Right,” he says and tries to fist bump Fitz. It doesn’t exactly work out. “Go out and get the girl. No problem.” He’s all about that girl-getting life.

Two days later, he’s lurking at a table in Skye’s favorite coffee shop/bookstore and he didn’t know that the girl-getting life involved eating this many pastries. (He has to have a reason for staying here, after all, and that piece of blueberry coffee cake is practically calling his name.) Lance stares intently down at his book--number five on the list of Skye-approved titles---and tries to look thoughtful as he--oh shit, she’s here. What does he do? Does he lean back in his chair and look casual? Roll up his sleeves and show off his arms? Pretend to still be reading thoughtfully?

Of course, he doesn’t manage that. Instead he manages to choke on a sip of coffee the exact moment that she sees him. “Lance Hunter,” she says and squints at him, like he’ll turn into someone else if she waits long enough. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to pick up a new copy of the annotated Silmarillion,” he tries. Skye almost cracks a smile. 

“Do you even know what the Silmarillion is?” She’s still ready to roll her eyes at him but she has one hand propped on her hip in a way that makes him think she might be just as ready to flirt.

“It’s the history--sort of--of the place where all the books happen. Like if the Hobbit happened before the Lord of the Rings, this is the stuff that happened before the Hobbit,” Lance says. The Hobbit’s before Lord of the Rings, isn’t it? Though they both have hobbits. Why do they all have hobbits?

“The stuff that happened before the Hobbit?” Skye looks remarkably doubtful, frowning at him and arching one eyebrow so high that it looks like it’s about to fall off her face. “Can you even name the four lands of Ea? That’s basic Tolkien fan knowledge.”

“Of course I can. Er,” Fuck. He can do this. Fitz and Jemma trained him. And he’s kind of scared of what might happen if Jemma finds out he failed. “Valinor, Beleriand, Numenor, and Middle-Earth.” Lance grins triumphantly--he can’t believe that he remembered all of those names. “It’s kind of a mess, because it was published after Tolkien died and then his son had to make some stuff up to fill in the gaps, but it’s a cool mess.”

“I didn’t exactly think of you as the Tolkien type.”

“I was a geeky little kid,” he shrugs. “A cool geeky little kid. And now I’m a cooler big kid.”

“Who puts whipped cream on his coffee.” Skye glances down at his mocha cookie crumble “blended drink” (not a frappuccino for legal reasons, according to the barista). 

“I’m confident in my masculinity.” He tries hard to look confident in his masculinity, and tries even harder to remember what the radical feminist texts Jemma had him speed-read said about whipped cream on coffee. 

“Next time, go for the chocolate sprinkles.” Before she walks away, she steals half his muffin.

 

Skye works at the Apple Store on weekends, mostly because she likes the Genius Bar t-shirt they give her and the half-decent salary they pay her and she’s willing to suffer through a lot of clueless customers to get both of those. What she’s not willing to suffer through, though, is anyone who thinks that she doesn’t know what she’s doing because she’s a girl. Including some of her coworkers, who seem to think that they can tell her she’s doing everything wrong and then hit on her. Ugh, she needs coffee. Or sugar. Preferably both. 

What she does not need (she thinks) is Lance Hunter, who’s currently striding through the Apple Store towards her with a smile that shouldn’t look so nice. He spends so much time scowling--from what she’s noticed at least (not that she’s been noticing much)--that his smile is a pleasant surprise. The real one, not the sarcastic smirk that’s his other default expression. And, Skye admits, it’s kind of nice that he saves that smile for her. She still doesn’t like him, despite the fact that he’s read the Silmarillion and puts more whipped cream than is probably healthy on his coffee. Despite the fact that he seems like he might be more than a British accent and a nice pair of shoulders in a leather jacket. Because he’s probably not, she reminds herself. She knows better than that.

But despite all of that, she can’t help sitting up a little straighter in her chair and checking that yes, her hair does look kind of great today. “What excuse do you have for being here?” she asks him, leaning back and spinning around in her wheely chair. 

“My laptop’s broken. It’s not doing the thing,” he says and props himself up against the counter. “Clearly, it needs the help of a genius. And you’re the only one I see.”

“What thing?” 

“Convincing a pretty girl to go out with me?” Lance smiles even wider at her. “I even had a computer joke prepared for the occasion.”

“Nice try,” Skye pushes his laptop back to him. “Go to Starbucks and get me a coffee and maybe I’ll let you tell me that computer joke.” He’s off before she can tell him to get her a cookie too. He buys one anyway, and they argue over whose it is for the next half hour.

 

Lance is standing five feet away from her favorite comic book shop wearing a sleeveless shirt, and that is really not fair. No one should be allowed to have muscles that nice and show them off in public, Skye thinks. It does bad things to her brain, making it go all wobbly and giving her ideas. Like crossing to the other side of the street to say hi to him.

“You certainly are persistent,” she says casually as she locks her car and glances over at him. He practically jumps at the sound of her voice, almost spilling his (bright pink, covered in whipped cream) drink everywhere, and then recovers and tries to lean against the wall and look cool again.

“This time is actually an accident,” he sputters. “The coffee shop across the way has biscuits that kind of taste like Jammy Dodgers and I stopped by here to try to find something for my little sister--she’s been going through a Captain Marvel phase--and I’m not stalking you, I swear. I just...your sister…”

“Of course Jemma did. That’s weirdly sweet,” Skye shrugs and squints at his clear plastic Starbucks cup. (Apparently, his name is now Lank.) “What is it? Can I have some?”

“You don’t even know what it is,” Lance grumbles as he hands it over. 

“Pink drinks are the best kind,” she tells him matter-of-factly.

“Not very punk rock of you.”

“I have a t-shirt that says that.” Skye slurps loudly on the drink, just to see what he does. She thinks he might be grinning. And not so unconsciously checking her out. 

“Smash the state but, baby, don’t smash my heart. I did my research!” he says defensively when she giggles at him. “I thought that if I was prepared, I’d have a better chance of convincing you to go out with me. Natural charm and looks only take a guy so far.”

“Why do you want to? Go out with me?” she adds. Unnecessarily. “Not many people do.” 

And for a minute, Lance doesn't know what to say. _Because Grant Ward offered me eighty bucks?_ But he knows (already) that that's not quite it. That eighty dollars definitely wasn't enough to induce him to watch four different incarnations of _Star Trek_. But the idea of acknowledging the thought that it might be more than the eighty bucks makes him feel uncomfortable, like he's wearing a stiff new suit that doesn't quite fit, and he pushes the thought to the back of his head. Instead, Lance just opens his mouth and hopes that something useful comes out.

“Because you’re smart and funny and sarcastic and when you smile, it’s like you know the punchline to every joke. Even though I’m pretty sure you make half of them up, and you kind of pull it off, which impresses me way more than it should. You’re unfairly cute, which is why I keep on letting you steal all my food and you probably want to punch me for calling you cute right now. I think that I kind of like that too,” he says and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t think he’s said this many words at once in...ever. And weirdly enough, he thinks that they might all be true. “You don’t care what other people want you to be and I think I like that most of all.”

“Okay. Um…” Skye can’t think of anything clever to say and it’s weird. Really weird. But maybe not bad weird. “Where did you want to take me?”

“There's a party this weekend, at Darcy Lewis'. Maybe you could let me take you? It doesn't have to be a big thing?” he offers. “Just us, having fun at a party, glaring at people from a corner.”

“Okay,” she repeats slowly. “I can do a party. Okay.” And then she's off, hair swinging over her shoulder, glancing back at him as she heads into the comic book store so fast that he might have missed it if he hadn't been watching her the whole time. “Pick me up at eight,” she calls.

If Lance were less mature, he might have given himself a high-five.

 

“You’re going to Darcy Lewis’ party,” Jemma announces in their next tutoring (scheming) session. 

“Why me?” Fitz says immediately. “I don’t think I have the kind of social skills needed to navigate a party.” Really, he just wants her to say that she’ll go with him, because the last time that he asked her out, she didn’t say no but she didn’t say yes either, and he’s just a little too nervous to ask her again. “Aren’t you supposed to be going too?”

“Of course I am. But I’ll have to talk to people and be social and do stuff,” Jemma scowls. It’s adorable. “I won’t be able to step in and intervene if something goes horribly, irrevocably wrong. But you will.”

“Define horribly, irrevocably wrong.” He’s not sure he’s ready for this kind of responsibility.

“You’ll know it when you see it. But you can text me if you really need me,” Jemma promises and does her best to ignore the puppy-dog eyes that he’s giving her. She had a lot of fun (too much) training Lance with Fitz, but now she’s refocused, thank you very much, and she’s back to crafting her five-step plan for obtaining social domination and Grant Ward. Because she's done the math and nothing about her and Fitz adds up.

When she's with him, it's like part of her brain shuts off, as all her critical analyses fly out of her head. It's so natural, so easy with him, that sometimes she doesn't know what she's going to say or do next, and it excites and terrifies her in equal measure. Because she is a girl who loves calculations, always knowing that she knows what she's doing, and he is a boy who makes all the practical voices in her head go silent. He has a way of looking through all the faces that she puts on, right through to the heart of her, the eight-year-old with a microscope who didn't even know what cool was, and Jemma isn't sure that she's ready to be undone.

“I’ve considered the situation,” Jemma adds. “And the odds of anything going wrong are really quite low. _Quite_ low.” So she smiles at him, and she definitely doesn’t wait nervously for him to smile back, and she definitely, definitely doesn’t think that with a boy who makes her head spin and her heart do dangerous things, she might be capable of miscalculating.


	6. You Know, Maybe You're Not as Vile as I Thought You Were

Fitz is pretty sure that he lacks the necessary cool quotient for this party, but no one seems to have noticed. When he came in, a pretty dark-haired girl gave him a hug, a beer that he promptly left on a table somewhere, and a warning that if he was mean to anyone, she had a Taser and she wasn’t afraid to use it. He hadn’t known what to do after that, besides avoiding the threat of the Taser, so now he’s just sort of hanging around in a corner, and trying to look like he’s thinking about very important scientific problems. Really, he’s wondering when Mack’s going to show up and if it’s possible that his motorcycle broke down again. (Mack’s still figuring out exactly how it works.) Really, _really_ , he’s looking for Jemma, hoping to see her walk through the door with a smile that’s meant for him and no one else. Finally, he gives in and texts her: _Holding down the fort. No sign of Skye and Lance yet._

_Skye’s still here_ , Jemma texts back when she hears her phone beep. _We’re having a ...negotiation._ That’s not the right word, she realizes, after she’s sent it. Negotiation implies that more than one person gets to talk. And for the past thirty minutes, the only person who’s been talking is her dad. She’s tried to point out that it’s a little unfair to leave Raina waiting outside on the porch for Jemma, despite the fact that she’s probably happily plotting world domination on her phone, and that it’s more than a little unfair to leave Lance sitting in his car playing the world’s longest air guitar solo. Especially since he’s actually taking Skye to the party (Jemma allows herself a small moment of self-congratulation--she still can’t quite believe that the plan actually worked).

“And now,” her dad announces. “We’re moving on to Case Study L--what to do if a Satanic cult attempts to recruit you. In this file, you’ll see that I’ve included a list of the top ten signs of Satanic cults, the relevant FBI agents to call upon, the--”

“Dad, it’s just a party,” Jemma finally says. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Trust us.”

“I’ll look out for her,” Skye adds. Their dad visibly relaxes, and Jemma bites her tongue and just barely keeps herself from saying something that she’ll regret.

“I want you to keep the case files,” he says sternly. “And have your phones with you the entire time. Ringtones on high. Maybe we could fit in a round of practicing your defensive maneuvers before you--” Skye actually looks intrigued and Jemma decides it’s time to take action. 

“Going now!” Jemma sings, grabbing Skye by the arm and dragging her out by the door. “I left a bunch of DVDs for you!” When they come back, there’s a very good chance that their dad is going to be sitting on the couch crying over _Friday Night Lights_ and, if she’s a little late for curfew, he’ll be too busy shouting life advice at Tim Riggins to notice her sneaking in. It’s just a little bit brilliant, if she says so herself.

When they emerge onto the porch, Skye shakes Jemma’s hand off almost immediately and heads down to Lance’s car. They don’t kiss, much to her disappointment, but Skye does lean in through his window and say something that makes him laugh. Well. She hadn’t known that Lance Hunter even laughed. “Well done,” Raina murmurs beside her. 

“I know.” By the time they get to the party, Jemma is practically giddy. Her sister is out on an actual, real date and (from what she can see as she peers through binoculars at Lance’s car), it’s going well. Skye’s date just needs to not end in tears, destruction of private property, or a serious injury and Jemma will be free to finish her social ascent--she sighs in satisfaction, already imagining how she’s going to bring cardigans back into style. She’s even already planning her first date with Fi...with Grant Ward. With Grant Ward. It’s going to involve the latest big budget action movie and minimal talking.

Still, she can’t help looking for Fitz when she walks in, if only so she can tell him her patented party survival tricks. It’s just what friends do. But then Jemma feels an arm wrap itself around her shoulders and Grant Ward is shouting in her ear and handing her his half-drunk beer. “Looking good, Jemma,” he tells her and she fakes a shy giggle. 

“How’s the party?” she asks, discreetly getting rid of the beer.

“Better now that I’m here. And you too, of course,” Grant adds quickly. It doesn’t sound entirely convincing. “Want to hear about the time I scored the winning hole in one?”

“Sure!” Jemma chirps. When she glances back over her shoulder, Raina is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like “just think about the cheekbones”. Then she spots Fitz, at the exact same moment that he sees her, and her heart sinks. His blue eyes are wide and hurt as he watches her disappear with Grant, and he looks like a puppy that’s been kicked, and all she wants is to go over and talk to him instead. But the crowd swallows her up, and Grant’s arm feels as heavy as lead across her shoulders, and by the time she looks back again, he’s gone. She pastes on a bright smile and tries not to wonder why she feels like she wants to cry.

“Hey, look who I found,” Grant shouts as he steers her into the living room, towards the keg, showing her off like she’s a doll on display, and then, of course, things get worse. Skye sees them. And, instead of coming up with some sarcastic line to throw at Grant, like the sister that Jemma knows, Skye just goes pale as a sheet, turns, and practically runs up the stairs. Grant smirks after Skye, tightening his hold on Jemma, and Jemma just _knows_ that there’s something he isn’t telling her. 

“Hey, what was that about?” she asks carefully.

“Probably just PMSing,” he shrugs. “Your sister’s kind of psycho most of the time anyway. Want to hear about the v-neck commercial I just shot?”

 

Skye flees. It’s not the brave thing to do, but it’s what she does. Because if she stays downstairs, if she has to see Grant Ward with his arm around her little sister for one more minute, she’s going to break something. Because she should’ve told Jemma about what happened between her and Grant, but just thinking about it makes her feel small and embarrassed and dumb. Because that was the deal-- she screwed up so Jemma wouldn’t have to. Because, even though Jemma is her own person and can make her own decisions, she can’t help feeling like this is her fault. (Somehow, it always is.)

She grabs a shot from a passing tray and downs it. Then another. Then a third, for good luck. She keeps on going up the stairs until she finally reaches the door to the roof, startling a couple who are making out on the stairs in front of it. But Skye just glares at them and they scatter as she swings the door open. There’s no one up here (thank god) and she sinks down on a lawn chair, curls her legs up under her, tilts her head back, and shuts her eyes so she won’t cry. She really shouldn’t let Grant get to her like that but she just--she hates high school. She fucking _hates_ high school. Especially the people who think they know who you are or, worse, who you should be. Especially, especially, when she starts thinking that maybe they have a point.

The door creaks open and Skye twists around, ready to give a death glare to anyone who’s even thinking of invading her space. It’s Lance, holding a pizza box in one hand and holding the other one palm-up, trying his best to look calm and comforting. “I come in peace,” he says. “And I stole pizza from downstairs.”

“Why are you here?” she asks flatly.

“Because I don’t like parties. Too many people, too much loud music, too many things to be sarcastic about. It’s hard to choose,” he protests when she gives him half a look. “The struggle is real.”

“You could have just left.” She thinks that maybe she wants him to stay, but she’s not going to tell him that.

“It’s more fun complaining about stuff with you.” Lance takes a half-step towards her and, when she lets him, he takes another and plops down ungracefully in the chair opposite her. “Besides, I knew you would be mad if I found pizza and didn’t give you any. I happen to like my social media nice and unhacked.”

“I only did that once. Maybe twice,” she admits after a while. “Just give me the pizza.” They eat in silence for a while, staring up at the sky until Skye starts to shiver and he shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her. “No,” she says empathically. “No stupid chivalry stuff. Besides, if I take it, I know that five minutes later you’ll just start complaining about being cold. Let’s go back to not talking. Not talking is good.” He just nods but, three and a half minutes later, when she’s still shivering, he sighs and drapes his jacket over her.

“If you freeze to death, you’ll probably come back as a ghost and haunt me,” he explains when she makes a weird grumbling noise about chivalry being a social construct. “I’m acting purely out of self-interest here.”

“You’re nice,” Skye says smugly. He winces. “You’re nice and you don’t want anyone to know it.” He winces even more. “You’re like a walking trope--mysterious bad boy with a heart of gold. And nice arms. The nice arms are very important.”

“See, I’m not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“Take them where you can get them, Hunter,” she replies and tosses a piece of pizza crust at him. He catches the crust in his mouth and she must think that’s pretty impressive, because the next thing she does is scoot her lawn chair next to his, with a loud metallic screech, and squeeze his bicep. Hard. “They’re real,” she announces. “Miracles do happen.”

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” He realizes, slightly horrified, that a drunk Skye is kind of cute.

“Not drunk enough to erase Grant Ward from my memory,” she sighs. “Do you have any more alcohol? Brooding bad boys are supposed to have alcohol. Usually it’s in a flask.” She looks at his jeans suspiciously and points at one of his pockets. “That bulge looks like a flask. At least I hope it’s a flask. Because it would be seriously disturbing if--”

“Grant Ward is an asshole,” he tells her, before he can find out what Skye’s version of seriously disturbing means. “And yes, it’s a flask. Careful,” he warns her as he hands it over. “It’s kind of str--” The words die in his throat as Skye gulps about half of it down and then has a seriously spectacular coughing fit. At least she didn’t get any of it on his jacket.

“I wish he didn’t get to me, you know,” she says softly and hugs her knees to her chest. “I wish that I was as tough as I pretend to be. Though I’m pretty sure that, if I was, I wouldn’t be hiding out on a roof right now.” She lets out a huge sigh. “I hate high school.”

“I think you’re pretty tough. Nothing fake about you,” Lance replies. He kind of wants to hug her. Would that be weird? “And high school--it’s only four years of our lives. And even then, it’s only a part of those four years. Like a job, from nine to five.” He holds out a hand to her. “Come on--it’s way past five. Want to go downstairs, steal some more pizza, witness some questionable life decisions, head out of here, and shake it off?”

“You just made a Taylor Swift reference.” She’s trying very, very hard not to giggle. “Is that where your heart of gold comes from?”

“I also help little old ladies across the street and rescue cats from trees,” he shrugs and stands up. “Want to go disrupt the system?”

“Anytime, English.”

 

Jemma is half hoping that something catches fire. Or someone starts a fight. Or a valuable crystal vase gets broken. Because if something-- _anything_ \--happens then maybe, just maybe, Grant will stop talking. He’s been going on and on about the struggles of being a model _and_ a golfer for the past hour and the only time he asked her a question about herself was when he asked her if she wanted to have a go with his four-iron. (Her answer was a very firm no.) In that same time, he’s also consumed two other beers, insulted four different key social groups at SHIELD High, and tried to look down her dress too many times to count.

She scans the room slightly desperately, but there’s no sign of Raina. There are plenty of people she knows, of course, but no one who knows her well enough to recognize that she’s bored out of her mind. Then she sees Fitz, talking intently to Darcy Lewis about something, gesturing wildly with his hands as Darcy leans in closer, hair sticking up in all directions, and Jemma feels a hot jolt of jealousy in her stomach. She remembers the way that Fitz listens to her, like he could hear her talk forever; she remembers the way that he finishes her sentences and picks up where she leaves off; she remembers that he planned day after day of training Lance Hunter just for her, just because he thought that she was the kind of person worth doing things for. And, standing there in a party, contemplating setting something on fire herself (a small, controlled fire), Jemma has an epiphany.

She doesn’t need Grant Ward for social domination. She doesn’t even need him around for eye candy. Because she is Jemma Simmons, and she is smart and capable and she singlehandedly made AP Biology cool again when she took it her sophomore year. The year after that, they had to add another section just to keep up with the demand. Because she’s more than a little tired of doing what other people expect her to do, like the leather backpack that only holds half her books, like the parties that bore her, and not what she wants to do. And right now, the only thing she wants (quite desperately) is Leo Fitz.

Grant is saying something about after parties and it’s only after he says her name three times that she realizes he’s been talking to her. “Oh, sorry,” Jemma says and smiles not-so-sweetly. “I can’t. What a shame.”

“Why not?” he whines. Actually whines.

“I, er, I--”

“Jemma has an early curfew,” Raina says, sliding up beside her and linking her arm through Jemma’s, smiling innocently at both of them in a way that makes Jemma very nervous. “But I don’t have to be home till two, so I could always come along instead.” Raina turns to her. “You’re getting a ride home with Fitz, right?” Raina emphasizes his name a little too much as she says it and it’s then that Jemma realizes the full scope of Raina’s evil (kind of genius) plan.

“Go get your boy,” Raina whispers as they hug goodbye and gives her a little push in Fitz’s direction. 

“Aww,” Jemma teases back. “You’re being sweet.”

“This? At least 50% is a cold and calculated move to secure the shining example of manhood that is Grant Ward for myself. The other 50% might--only _might_ \-- be friendship,” Raina admits. “But don’t you dare tell anyone. I’d hate to ruin my reputation.” 

Jemma giggles as she waves goodbye and crosses the room to Fitz, taking a deep breath. She is Jemma Simmons and she can do this. She can do this. Even if he currently appears to be sulking in a corner, and she suspects that it’s because of her. “Hi,” she blurts out when she’s finally standing in front of him.

“Hi,” he mumbles, staring at the ground and digging his hands deep into his jean pockets.

“I was wondering if you could maybe give me a ride home? I know this great diner we could stop at on the way back,” she offers and beams at him, hoping that he can tell that she means it. “I can buy you something as a thank you?”

“Don’t you have after parties to go to? People to network with? Guys to hang all over?” Fitz sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

“These parties get really boring after a while. And even if they weren’t, I’d rather hang out with you anyway.” She waits for him to get it but he just mumbles something about him and his convenient car and turns his back to her to lead them out of the party, still sulking. They drive in awkward silence for a while, the only sound the British-accented GPS telling them to turn left in 500 feet, until Jemma decides to try again. “I really am sorry that I didn’t come over to hang out with you during the party. I was going to, but then Grant just kept on talking and talking and he had a bit of a death grip on my arm, and I couldn’t get away. If I could have, I would have,” she says softly. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” And finally, finally he turns and looks at her properly, and his eyes can’t help lighting up like she’s something amazing, looking at her with the kind of adoration that takes her breath away. He’s always looked at her like this, she realizes, from the moment that he met her. Even now, when he’s still mad at her, he looks at her the same way that he looks at the stars and--god, how did she not realize this sooner?

“Good,” Jemma replies and tentatively rests her hand on his knee. He lets her. “For the rest of the night, I promise I’m all yours.”

 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Skye announces halfway through the drive. Lance pulls over to the side of the road almost immediately and she stumbles out. She doesn’t throw up though, just stands there and breathes in and out for the length of two Cure songs, and then climbs back in. “I’m fine now,” she claims and Lance eyes her suspiciously. 

“You’re sure?” He really likes his car.

“Just keep the windows down. And maybe drive really slowly? Like around twenty?” she says with a wince. He sighs, but he does it anyway. And when she starts singing along to the music, bopping in her seat and drumming her fingers against her dashboard, Lance realizes that she’s even prettier when she’s happy. That ( _shit_ ) maybe he wants to be one of the people who makes her look like this, loose and relaxed and grinning and so utterly her as she puts her feet up on his dashboard and dares him to tell her to put them back down. Even if having to drive at 20mph is driving him insane. So when she sticks an imaginary microphone out to him and demands that he sing along too, he does. He even keeps on singing along when she switches the station over to one that’s playing Taylor Swift and by the time they reach her house, they’re both belting out “Welcome to New York” at the top of their lungs, as he uses the horn to beep out the melody and probably pisses off all her neighbors.

“I listen to edgier stuff too, you know,” Skye tells him, giggling, when he switches off the radio. “My rock credentials are solid.”

“Right. I’m not convinced,” Lance leans back in his seat and smirks. “I’m not seeing any leather jackets or Sex Pistols albums here.”

“The Sex Pistols are punk. And I prefer The Clash. So there.” She sticks her tongue at him and then tilts her head to the side, looking at him speculatively. “I think I kind of like you, Lance Hunter, and I’m not sure if I should.” Skye scoots closer to him, leaning a little across the gear stick, and he tries very hard not to react to her. “But I think that maybe I’d like to find out.” Her voice has gone all low and breathy and then she’s climbing into his lap and she kisses like she does everything else, fierce and fast with a hint of sweetness underneath as she pulls him closer to her, and he knows--oh god, he knows--- this is a bad idea. This is a very, very bad idea. Because, no matter how hot this (and she) is, Skye’s drunk and emotional and has almost no impulse control and she’ll hate him in the morning if they go any further than this. And, when he kisses her for real, he wants her to be absolutely certain that she wants him to. Because, even though this started off as all kinds of fake, it’s starting to feel kind of real.

So Lance pulls back from her, firmly holding her at arms’ length, and tells her that he can’t. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says. “Because I really, really want to. Kiss you. And do other stuff. Eventually.” She’s still giving him her best flirty look, staring up at him from under her lashes, and he takes a deep breath and nudges her back into her seat. Her face starts to fall and for a second, he almost kisses her again, before he remembers what an asshole move that would be. “But you’re drunk and I won’t be that guy. It’s just not the right time or the right place--”

“Or the right girl, apparently.” Skye’s eyes are wide and hurt before the mask goes back up and she’s glaring at him again as she throws the door open and scrambles out of the car. “You know, for a little while, I actually thought you were different.” As she storms up the path, never looking back, Lance slumps forward and bangs his head against the dashboard. Fuck.

 

Fitz is focusing very hard on drinking his milkshake so he doesn’t have to talk to her while he drives her home, and Jemma isn’t quite sure what to do. Finally, they pull up to her house and she starts to gather up her things. “Well, this is me. Thank you,” she adds weakly. Fitz just nods. “I’ll see you on Monday?” she tries.

“Yeah…” He’s twisting the straw of his milkshake between his fingers now, bending it so sharply that it looks like it’s about to break, and then, suddenly, he sets it down with an audible thump. “You know, if you want to date Grant Ward, that’s okay. You could have told me that and I would have helped you anyway, because I just liked you that much. Still like you that much. But you were never going to go out with me, were you?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “Of course you weren’t, because you’re so out of my league that you might as well be on Mars, but you should still have told me that. Being beautiful, and brilliant, and you, doesn’t mean that you just get to treat people like they have an expiration date, that you can use them for as long as you need them and then just--”

“Fitz,” she interrupts. “There were about a million people who could have given me a ride home from that party, or a million afterparties that I could have gone to, or even a million other milkshakes that I could have gotten.” Fitz just rolls his eyes and slumps further down in his seat, muttering something that sounds like “I’m flattered.” But I didn’t choose any of that,” Jemma says urgently. “I didn’t want any of that. I chose you. And I’ll keep on choosing you for as long as I have to.” He just stares at her, dumbstruck, and clearly, telling him is not going to work. Jemma is just going to have to show him, this silly, silly boy that she likes so very, very much. So she leans over and kisses him.

For a second, he’s too surprised to do anything, hands flailing and eyes wide open. But then she tugs on the collar of his shirt so he can meet her halfway and he gets it, that this is real and here and now, that she means every second of this kiss. Fitz kisses her back softly and slowly and sweetly, brushing his lips against hers gently and curving his hand around the back of his neck to hold her like she’s the most precious thing he can possibly imagine. And she’s been kissed before, of course, but it’s never been quite like this, warm and simple and so right that she could just melt into him and stay here forever.

When she gets out of the car, she forgets to say good night. Instead, she just turns and smiles at him over her shoulder, feeling like she’s walking on air and filled with the impossible, giddy feeling that she’s really, truly got it right.


	7. Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

“So what went wrong?” Fitz asks Lance, who’s currently slumped on a bench and sulking, wearing black like it’s going out of style. 

“I stopped her when she was kissing me,” Lance says and slumps even further down. “So now she thinks that I don’t like her, even though I stopped because I do like her, and now she’s mad at me and she just--are all girls this impossible?” he asks Jemma. “Are you secretly aliens from a different planet?”

“No, although I used to think that about my sister when I was little, oddly enough. Lucky for you, Fitz found an inside source.” Jemma turns to beam proudly at Fitz and Fitz stares back at her adoringly. They’re so cute, Lance thinks that he might vomit.

“The inside source,” Fitz adds smugly. “If I say so myself.”

 

Five minutes later, Fitz and Mack are hovering in front of Trip’s locker while Jemma watches through binoculars down the hall. When Trip arrives, wearing something that looks awfully like a tunic, he just gives them a puzzled look before stepping forward to open his locker. They don’t go away. “Hey,” he says finally. “Do we have a class together?”

“Not really,” Fitz says. Although they did memorize his schedule. “See, we have this friend who likes your friend. Really likes your friend. Like, yes he wears too many leather jackets and sulks around a lot, but his heart is in the right place and he...” Fitz trails off. He’s pretty sure that he’s messing this up and he casts a desperate look over at Mack, hoping that he has a better idea than Fitz’s. Or something that isn’t word vomit. Mack shoots him a confused look, but then Mack spots the Arden Complete Works taking up half of Trip’s locker and he mouths “I got this” at Fitz. 

“The very instant that he saw her, his heart did fly to her service,” Mack says casually. Fitz’s jaw drops open. “For when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.”

“But Love is blind and lovers cannot see the pretty follies that themselves commit. For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush,” Trip counters.

“If thou remember’st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not loved,” Mack argues. “For the path of true love never did run smooth.”

“Um, but soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” Fitz volunteers. They both ignore him.

“True love?” Trip looks doubtful and, as he leans against his locker and raises an eyebrow, much cooler than anyone has the right to look in a tunic. “I think that my best friend was enamored of an ass.”

“True love is a big word,” Mack admits. “ But the Bard deals in big words. And our friend knows he hath screwed up-eth. And he’s sorry and he wants to make it up to her. So maybe she could give the guy another chance?” They wait, while Trip thoughtfully taps a finger against his paperback copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. “Or at least you could tell us where she is on the revenge scale? Like is she Titus Andronicus baking people into pies pissed off angry or Hamlet moping?” Mack adds. 

“At the moment she’s tending towards “hates him with the fire of a thousand suns”, but if he were to...make things measure for measure, she might be more...temperate,” Trip grins and shrugs. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.” He shuts his locker and heads off down the hall. “And, by the way,” Trip shouts as he vanishes into the crowd. “Tell your friend that if he hurts my friend’s feelings again, I’ll kick his ass. Or she will.”

“How do you know that much Shakespeare?” Fitz asks as they’re walking back to Lance’s bench of sulk. 

“I read,” Mack shrugs. “He may be a dead white guy from centuries ago, but the man knows what he’s doing.”

“Measure for measure?” Lance repeats ten minutes later, confused. “Does she want me to measure things? Do something with the metric system?” Jemma sighs, loudly and significantly, and keeps on doing it until they turn to look at her.

“It’s simple, really,” Jemma explains. “She felt embarrassed, so now you have to do something embarrassing too. Preferably some kind of grand romantic gesture. If you’re interested, I’ve compiled a list of representative gestures, from Jane Austen to Bridget J--”

“I can think of something on my own!” Lance protests. They all wait for him to say something else. “You have to give me some time,” he grumbles. “Go away. Be nauseatingly cute somewhere else.”

“We are not cute!” Jemma says indignantly and stomps off, Fitz following behind her like he’s a magnet and she’s his true north. Mack just chuckles and wishes Lance good luck. He doesn’t need it. Nope, totally doesn’t need it. He’s just bursting with good romantic gesture ideas. Like...flowers. Everyone likes flowers, don’t they? Lance groans, thumps his head against the bench, and resumes sulking. 

He’s seriously contemplating renting Bridget Jones’ Diary when the bell rings, and he grabs blindly for his backpack, the paperback copy of Return of the King he bought years ago falls out. And then it hits him. What’s more romantic than swords, evil monsters, and lots of walking?

 

Skye is trying to convince Mr. Barton that perching on top of the rock climbing wall and shouting directions at the class from there isn’t very productive. None of them can hear him and at least half the class already tried to flee when he threatened to make them walk across the top of the wall too. (They didn’t get very far--Mr. Barton spotted them before they got across the soccer field.) She’s not having much success and she’s about to threaten to fetch Ms. Romanoff when Darcy Lewis tugs on her arm and tells her to “look, Skye, like right this minute”. Repeatedly. Loudly.

So she looks. And there’s someone standing on top of the main campus building waving a torch. Skye can’t tell from this far away, but they look like they might be dressed as a hobbit (albeit one wearing a leather jacket that looks way too familiar). Darcy eagerly presses a pair of binoculars into her hand and when Skye looks through them, it all becomes painfully clear. Oh God. It’s Lance. And he’s about to light a beacon, in a giant cauldron thing with the One Ring painted around it that looks half authentic and half like it came from a Halloween store. “The beacon is lit!” Lance shouts through a microphone. “Gondor calls for aid!”

“Oh my God,” Skye whispers. She’s trying very, very hard not to smile. Then Lance goes running off across the rooftops, towards where she spots another huge cauldron, this time decorated with little pictures of elves, and she realizes that he’s going to light all seven. (Technically, in the books, there are thirteen but she thinks that if he covers enough rooftop to light thirteen cauldrons, he might collapse from exhaustion-SHIELD High has a lot of roof, most of which Mr. Barton hangs out on in his free time.) When he lights the final cauldron, panting and trying to keep one hobbit foot from falling off, he lifts the microphone up again and waves frantically at her. 

“Gondor calls for aid. Will Rohan answer?” Lance shouts. And even though Skye knows he can’t hear her, she mouths “yes” back up at him.

 

“Look at that,” Jemma says, peering out the window. “Well done, Lance. For a while there, I thought we were going to have to teach him to sing.”

“Let’s not talk about the s-word,” Fitz actually shudders. “I was going to leave you on your own if we had to do that. Can you imagine teaching Lance to sing? It’d be like trying to make a German shepherd do the tango.” Jemma tries to give him a look, because that metaphor wouldn’t make sense to anyone, even Professor Selvig, but he looks so ridiculously proud of himself--of them--that she just has to kiss him instead. Quick and chaste, because they’re in the library, which is essentially a sacred space, but he still turns pink with happiness and leans against her. “You did all this,” he whispers. “You’re the reason that Lance Hunter just sprinted across the rooftops in hobbit feet and you’re kind of amazing.”

“You’re allowed to take credit too,” Jemma says stubbornly. “You were there for all of those Lance training sessions. For the whole damn time that he kept on getting Sauron and Saruman mixed up.” 

“Yeah, but you’re you,” he says, like everything suddenly makes sense. It doesn’t to her but then he kisses her again, carefully wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her closer, and they really shouldn’t be doing this in the library but-- _oh._ He kisses her more deeply, nipping at her lower lip and then running his tongue over it to soothe the bite, and Jemma reasons that they’re hidden behind rows and rows of shelves and kisses him back. Fitz has a way of making the world around her narrow down until it’s just the two of them, a perfectly functioning unit, and for a while, she forgets that technically, he hasn’t even asked her out yet. Then she remembers, and pulls back with a pout and a huff. Because there are rules and strictures and ways to do these kinds of things, and they’re skipping all kinds of steps, and she doesn’t know what to think. Because it may not be very take-charge of her, but she wants to hear him say it anyway. Because maybe she’s just spent too much time fending off teenage boys with wandering hands, but all of a sudden she’s worried that he’s changed his mind about her, or that, now that she’s kissed him, he wants to just sneak around with her. Maybe she’s not even very good at kissing and he’s trying to find a nice way to tell her that he’s not interest--

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks anxiously. “Was that too much? I didn’t know if you wanted me to kiss you again or if you wanted to be the one that always started it or--”

“Do you still want to date me?” Jemma says and crosses her arms over her chest. “We can’t just keep on kissing in cars and libraries, you know.” She wants to show him off to the rest of the school as they walk hand in hand down the hallway, and take cheesy prom pictures in front of a glittery backdrop, and steal french fries from his tray in the cafeteria in lunchtime, and sit in the back rows of movie theaters and criticize the fake science, and be so cute together until the entire school “can’t even”. But she doesn’t know if he’ll let her. 

“Of course I want to date you! Very, very much,” he says eagerly, then glances down at the floor, tapping one hand nervously against his thigh. “I just, um....er...I don’t know exactly how to. Or what to say. Or...can’t you just--it would feel weird. Everyone already thinks that you’re out of my league and I--” 

“Don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want,” Jemma tells him and grabs her backpack, turning to leave. “I kissed you first. Now it’s your move.”

Watching her go, Fitz slumps against one of the shelves and sighs. He knows that he probably looks like a lost puppy right now, but he doesn’t really care because she’s just...perfect. And, no matter how much he likes her, how desperately he wants to have the chance to be with her, he can’t help thinking that he’s just...him. Slightly awkward, too smart for his own good, former child prodigy Leo Fitz. But then he remembers the way that she smiled at him before she kissed him, and the steel in her voice when she told him to feel like he deserves this. That he deserves her. And he thinks that maybe, if he works at it, he can be the kind of boy who does. That maybe he already is.

 

“What did you glue those ears on with?” Skye asks, when she finds Lance, hiding from campus security in the lighting booth and unsuccessfully trying to change out of his hobbit costume. He’s got one foot off and the other one still on, a cloak trapped underneath his leather jacket, a tunic crumpled on the floor, and two pointed ears that are refusing to come off.

“The wrong stuff,” he grumbles and tugs hard on one ear. It looks painful. 

“Want me to help?” she says and perches on a chair, idly playing with the sliders on the light board. On stage, three different spotlights and a weird blue light click on at the same time and Lance glances nervously down at the board. “The damage I can cause with a light board is minimal,” she tells him. “Anyway, want me to help with the ears? I can give you something to bite down on.”

“I can handle pain all by my--” Lance doesn’t get to finish complaining because she kisses him. And he definitely can’t complain about that, Skye thinks smugly. It’s been a long time, if she doesn’t count that awkward drunken kiss in the car--too long, she thinks--but she thinks (she really hopes) she’s still good at this. It’s when Lance pulls her closer, grinning against her mouth and bringing one hand up to tangle in her hair, that she knows she’s good. She kisses him until they’re both breathless, until she’s got him pressed up against a wall and she’s pressed up against him, his arms wrapped around her, surprisingly steady and surprisingly sweet, as he brushes his lips against hers and shuts his eyes like it’s all too much. Like she’s too much, but he likes it anyway. And the accent... _God, the accent._

“What do you have seventh period?” she asks him when she finally pulls away, cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

“Um, I think I have gym?”

“Lance,” Skye sighs. “What do you have _seventh period_?” It takes him a moment to get it, but then he leans back against the wall and gives her his best smirk.

“Absolutely nothing,” he says and curves one hand around her hip. “You’re a bad influence, aren’t you?”

“I’m a great influence. And a great driver.” Skye pulls her car keys out from her pocket and dangles them in front of him. “How do you feel about roller coasters?”

Half an hour and five broken traffic regulations later, they’re eating churros on the beach and staring up at the Santa Monica pier. “Let’s go through the rumors,” Skye says firmly as she licks sugar off her fingers and catches him staring. “Mob connection?”

“Never even seen _The Godfather_.” Lance taps his fingers against his thigh, thinking. “Hacking the school email system to declare a snow day?”

“It was a phase,” Skye shrugs. “Riding bulls in the rodeo?”

“I look great in a cowboy hat, but no. Darlin’,” he adds in a (terrible) American accent. “After this, do I have to win you some kind of ugly stuffed animal?”

“Nah. I can win my own stuffed animals.” And she does, a giant sparkly pink unicorn which she makes him carry for the rest of the day. Onto the Ferris wheel, where he nearly drops it when the wheel stops at the top and he leans over to kiss her; on the roller coaster, where he clutches it in terror; in the soda fountain, where they eat an enormous sundae and she tries to build something with the cherry stems; and back on the beach, where he uses it as a shield when they go wading in the Pacific and she tries to splash him. Eventually, Lance lets her do it anyway, because Skye’s pouting up at him and she looks happier than he’s ever seen her and he’s a sucker for a pretty girl. For this pretty girl.

When she drops him off at his door, insisting that he give the (somehow still sparkly) unicorn to his little sister, she kisses him for a whole five minutes before she kicks him out of her car and she doesn’t complain about getting sand on her upholstery. “By the way,” Skye shouts as she peels out of his driveway. “You still have half a hobbit ear on.”

All he can do is stand there and grin stupidly. He’s pretty sure that this girl is turning him into an idiot and he doesn’t mind at all.

 

But the next day, when Grant Ward finds him at his locker, he feels like an entirely different kind of idiot. Because, somewhere along the way, he almost forgot about the money, and about what Skye would think if she found out.

“I need you to take Skye to the prom,” Grant says. No hi, no nice to see you, just a photogenic scowl and a wad of cash.

“I’m not interested.” Lance shuts his locker with a heavy thunk. “Our deal’s over, Ward. Skye and I went out on a date and if you want to date her sister so much, maybe you could try listening to her for more than five seconds.”

“Jemma’s been avoiding me ever since the party and I need prom night to seal the deal,” Grant whines, making a gesture that Lance immediately wishes he could bleach from his mind. Lance doesn’t say anything back, just clicks his lock back into place and steps out into the hallway, but Ward steps in front of him before he could get away. “Look, it’s easy. Do your weird British thing and get Skye to go to the prom. Or I’ll tell her that I paid you to date her.”

Well. _Shit._


	8. Tell Me Something Real

Jemma happens to quite like her personal bubble, and the fact that only certain people are allowed inside it. Grant is not one of those people. Only he seems to _not_ have gotten the memo. Because he’s leaning over her shoulder and practically breathing into her ear and she’s trying very hard to resist the urge to accidentally shoot him in the foot during their archery unit.

“Hey there, good-lookin,” he says and twists his mouth in the smolder that she used to think was attractive.

“Hi, Grant,” Jemma sighs and sights along the line of her bow. If she just let her grip slip the tiniest bit… she could easily claim that it was an accident...no. No. Bad Jemma. Model students and future valedictorians don’t shoot self-absorbed fellow students with (very nearly harmless) arrows, she tells herself firmly.

“You. Me. Prom. I’ll pick you up at eight?” he leans in like he’s going to kiss her and Jemma backs away so fast that she loses her grip on her bow and the arrow goes flying. Somewhere, off in the distance, Mr. Barton shouts something about her aim being worse than Mr. Stark, the physics teacher, when he sets off model rockets. 

“Was that supposed to be you asking me to prom?” _Because generally, prom proposals are supposed to involve more words than you, me, and prom, aren’t they?_ Jemma swallows the words back down and tries to smile politely at him.

“We’re definitely going to win king and queen,” Grant tells her. “My agent told me that my head was the perfect size for a crown.”

“You still haven’t actually asked me,” Jemma says sharply. “You just assumed that I’d say yes.”

“Well, you are going to,” he shrugs. “I’m Grant Ward.”

“And I’m not interested.” She waits for a minute, to see if he’s ever heard the words not and interested strung together before. Grant just stares at her blankly, then shakes his head like he’s trying to get water out of his ears, then stares at her blankly some more.

“So you’re playing hard to get,” he says confidently and tilts his head so the sun reflects off his cheekbones. “I see how it is.” 

“No,” Jemma snaps. “I’m just not interested.” Thankfully, mercifully, the bell rings and Jemma makes her escape before he can say anything else. Not that she’s sure he has anything else to say. 

Five minutes later, she slumps against her locker and sighs. Apart from one brief sideways glance in the hallway, she hasn’t seen Fitz in over a day. In high school terms, that’s practically millenia. And yes, the sideways glance was technically an adoring gaze, but Fitz always gives her the adoring gaze and she can’t tell if it was the kind of adoring gaze that meant “Yes, Jemma, let me take you out on madly romantic dates and woo you” or “I’m just going to keep on pining from my pining corner”. He totally has a pining corner, Jemma thinks. And it’s probably dark and dusty and scored to sad indie rock. Maybe not dusty--Fitz is afraid of spiders.

“At least you look pretty when you mope,” Raina says, swinging her own locker open and offering Jemma a sip of her iced chai. “You might want to reconsider the slumping though, since it’s a major waste of those shoes.” 

“I’m not moping,” Jemma says defensively. “I’m thinking. About important things.” She should have just asked him out. She should definitely have just asked him out and if he’d said no...well, if he’d said no, she could have just put on her cutest sweater set and found another blue-eyed, curly-haired, adorably awkward, sweet, funny, definitely flawed but she thought that she kind of liked it, future engineer. Another one had to exist somewhere. With a more symmetrical face. 

“Aren’t you going to get anything out of your locker? You promised that you’d loan me the notes from that Spanish class I missed,” Raina reminds her. Jemma sighs again and pulls it open. A dozen balloons fall out, followed by a shower of brightly colored gerbera daisies. And when she peeks her head into the locker, there’s a cupcake sitting on top of her books. Chocolate with peanut butter frosting, from that one place that always has a line out the door. She turns and looks suspiciously at Raina, who’s humming to herself and looking entirely too innocent. Then she turns around. 

Fitz is standing in front of her locker, looking shy and nervous and perfect. “Hi,” he says awkwardly and waves at her. Jemma waves back.

“Did you...was this you?” She gestures towards him with a daisy.

“Was it too much? I thought that it might be too much at first, but then I thought that if I was going to do this, it’d be better to do too much than too little and I--anyway,” he takes a deep breath, stands up a little straighter. “I thought about what you said a lot. And you told me that it was my move, so I thought I should probably make it a good one.” He produces another gerbera daisy from his backpack and holds it out to her. “Jemma, would you like to go to the prom with me?”

“Of course I would,” she breathes.

“We don’t just have to go to the prom,” he adds quickly. “We could go out before and after and in between--maybe we could go up to the Griffith Observatory and see one of their planetarium shows, scientifically basic as they are--but I just thought that if I was going to ask you out, properly, it should be for something big. Something that you really want.”

“I don’t want to be prom queen _that_ badly--” Juniors never get to be prom queen, even if it’s technically a junior-senior prom, and she’s perfectly content to wait until her inevitable triumph her senior year, although she can’t deny that she’s considered the possibility of winning it this year, because she always considers all the possibilities, and just who she’d have to defeat in order to do it....

“Yes, she does,” Raina says fondly. “She nearly spread a very nasty rumor about her closest competition.”

“The key word being nearly. Anyway,” Jemma reaches out to tug him towards her, tipping her face up towards his and squeezing his hand tightly. “The only thing I really want is you.” And then, because he looks too happy to realize that this is the part where he kisses her, she leans up and kisses him. Short and sweet, because they’re in the middle of the hallway, but long enough to make it perfectly clear that Leo Fitz is hers and she’s not letting go of him. “Want to walk me to my next class?” she asks when she pulls away. “I don’t have any books to carry, but I do have all these balloons...”

“Very heavy, balloons,” Fitz nods solemnly. “Though I was thinking that if we tied them all to your backpack, we could attempt to replicate the conditions from Up....”

 

“I think we should go to prom,” Lance says. Skye nearly chokes on a spring roll. They’re eating Thai food in some random place in Hollywood and Lance only complained once when she ordered the curry extra spicy. He’s very proud of himself for that, despite the fact that he’s been chugging glasses of water for the past half hour.

“Prom?” She stares at him, not even noticing the peanut sauce that’s slowly dripping into her lap. “Are you sure that you haven’t been invaded by some kind of weird alien body-snatching thing? Why would we go to prom?”

“Because it’s the exact opposite of what everyone thinks we’re going to do? And I heard they were going to have a chocolate fountain this year?” Lance is beginning to realize that he didn’t plan this out very well. Or at all. Skye is still staring at him, looking vaguely horrified, and then she crosses her arms across her chest and narrows her eyes at him, and he realizes that he’s in for a signature Skye rant.

“Prom is nothing more than an excuse for people to hook up, show off, and push people into pools wearing expensive dresses,” she tells him. “Even if there is a chocolate fountain.”

“Pushing people into pools? What kind of proms have you been going to?” Or maybe she’s just watched a lot of the OC. Lance saw that DVD set of all four seasons the one time that she smuggled him into her room so they could watch the extended edition of _Return of the King_. (“You haven’t actually seen the movies until you’ve seen the extended editions, Lance. Now look at the way they’re walking here. Totally different.”)

“None,” she mumbles.

“Then why not go? Just to see what it’s like? We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to,” he offers and takes another bite of drunken noodles, trying to look casual. Unfortunately, he bites down on a piece of pepper and has to shove half a plate of rice into his mouth. Lance thinks, sadly, that before he met Skye Coulson, he used to be really cool. Or at least look really cool. Skye laughs for a minute, but then he opens his mouth again and she cuts him off before he can say anything else.

“You’re pushing this,” she says suspiciously. “Why do you want to go to prom so much anyway?”

“Because I want to see you in a pretty dress and dance with you and take really awkward photos that we can burn afterwards. That’s all, I promise.” And he tells himself that he’s telling the truth.

“So why does it have to be at prom? Did you get dumped at another one and think you could have a do-over with me?” Because it’s never her, just her, Skye thinks. It’s what she can do or what she represents or the person that they want her to be in their story, all her rough edges smoothed out. 

“I just told you that I wanted to go with you! Why would I...I don’t...that doesn’t even make any sense. God, Skye,” he sighs and throws his arms up in frustration, mouth twisted in the way that he knows makes him look like an angry cat. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“Because I already told you that I don’t want to go and you didn’t listen to me,” Skye snaps and slams her water glass down with a decisive thud. Then she walks out, leaving Lance sitting there with a mountain of Thai food and no idea what to do. He thinks--he _knows_ \--that somehow he’s really, really screwed this up (again) but he can’t help thinking that there’s something she’s not telling him too. Something important that never got covered in Jemma and Fitz’s briefings.

 

An hour later, Skye is sulking in her room. She has the Rolling Stones playing on high volume and two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and she’s not sure why she’s this upset. Because she hasn’t heard from Lance since she left and she can’t help thinking that she’s messed it up even though she knows, rationally, that this is not the kind of thing that ends them. Not that she really cares if it does, Skye tells herself. She’s fine with or without him because she is tough and independent and she has a leather jacket of her own, and she _definitely_ did not steal his. But it was nice, she admits. It was fun. And easy, somehow, like she could say whatever she wanted to him and, yes, maybe he’d roll his eyes or snark back to her but, underneath, she knew that he liked it (and, most of all, her). And now it feels like Lance wants her to change, just like-- Skye stabs the ice cream with a spoon and reminds herself that she is not going to think about her asshole ex.

She’s almost done with the first pint when there’s a knock on her door and Jemma peeks her head in. “Hi,” Jemma chirps. “Can I come in?”

“What do you want?” Skye asks flatly.

“To spend time with my beloved sister, of course--is that ice cream?” Jemma’s settling herself on the bed before Skye can stop her, leaning over to open up the Peanut Butter Fudge and giving Skye an extra sweet smile. Skye knows that smile and she knows it means trouble.

“Did Dad catch you trying to experiment on the cat again? I already told you that classical conditioning wasn’t going to work on Loki--that cat knows what you’re doing and he’s refusing to cooperate just to spite you.” Their cat is the kind of cat that appears on the covers of books titled “how to know if your cat is planning to take over the world”, possibly insane, and occasionally, inexplicably cuddly. Skye isn’t sure how they ended up with Loki--she suspects that he just turned up on their porch one day and guilt tripped her dad into keeping him. 

“That was one time,” Jemma says primly. “When I was thirteen. _Anyway_ , as you know, a very important event is coming up on the school calendar. Namely, the prom. I was wondering if you were thinking of going, since as you know, I can’t go if you don’t and someone just happened to--”

“Is that someone’s name Grant Ward?” Skye blurts out. Jemma opens her mouth to answer, but Skye just keeps on talking, before she can chicken out again. Fuck her pride. Jemma needs to hear this. “Jemma, did you know that Grant and I used to date? Not for very long, just a month or so in freshman year. Around the time when Phil and Audrey were getting divorced, when being in the house wasn’t...great. I made a lot of stupid choices that year. Anyway,” Skye takes a deep breath. “He always had to be the one who knew more, who people liked more, who told me what to do--he kept on telling me that I had to change my hair, or my clothes, or get more in shape, or whatever I needed to do to be the person he wanted me to be." She grabs a pillow from the bed and squeezes it, hard enough that the stuffing nearly pops out. "This perfect little accessory for him, just something that he could slot into the story of the great Grant Ward.” Like what she thought didn’t matter. “And eventually, he wanted to have sex and I wasn’t ready, so I said no. And he dumped me. Luckily.”

“And he never told anyone about it?” Jemma says quietly.

“I might have some top-secret video of him doing a Taco Bell commercial at age twelve. Dressed as a singing taco.” Skye grins, just a little. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, Jemma. I just don’t want you to get hurt like I did, I can’t let that happ-”

“I’m not going to the prom with Grant. I’m going with Fitz.” When she says Fitz’s name, Jemma can’t help smiling, bright enough to power an entire electric grid, and she flushes pink with happiness. “ And he’s pretty amazing--he’s smart and kind and silly and loyal and brave--and I really, really like him. If you’d talk to me, I could have told you that.”

“I talk to you!” Skye says defensively. “I just don’t know what to talk to you about. You’re all science-y and popular and I don’t...”

“I’m still your sister.” Jemma tucks her knees up under her, suddenly looking very small and fragile, and Skye feels that same need to protect her that she felt when Jemma was little, to wrap her up in a blanket and make sure she never gets hurt. But then Jemma lifts her head and meets Skye’s gaze head-on and small looks a lot more like strong. “But you only ever talk to me when you’re telling me not to do something. Because you don’t trust me to make my own decisions, or to make the right ones.”

“I just want to protect you. To make sure that you don’t mess up like I did,” Skye whispers.

“But if you never let me experience anything for myself, how am I going to ever figure anything out? I have to make my own mistakes and my own choices, and deal with the consequences. You need to trust me, Skye,” Jemma tells her firmly. “And maybe you need to trust yourself too.”


	9. Cruel to be Kind

She is actually going to the prom. She can’t believe that she’s actually going to the prom. She can’t believe that they actually make prom dresses in this particular shade of pink. But, Skye admits as she turns to look at herself in the mirror, she looks damn good in this particular shade of pink.

She let Jemma take her shopping yesterday and they talked. It wasn’t perfect--there were still some awkward silences, still times when Skye had to bite her tongue to keep from giving out sisterly advice--but they talked and she listened and it was surprisingly good. If a little terrifying, when she realized just how capable her little sister was of taking over the world (or maybe just high school).

“You’re not going to wear those shoes, are you?” Speak of the devil. Jemma’s peering in through the doorway, Raina standing beside her, and they both have the exact same expression on their faces--shock and disapproval. Raina actually looks like she might have tears in her eyes.

“Can I burn those shoes?” Raina whispers to Jemma. “Please tell me that I can.”

“I heard that,” Skye says loudly and clutches her combat boots to her chest. “And I wasn’t going to wear them.”  
“Right,” Jemma arches one eyebrow at her. “Luckily, we brought supplies.” She gestures Raina forward, a maniacal gleam in her eye, and oh god--is that a suitcase? No, it’s several suitcases. Skye thinks that Jemma might have been waiting for this day since childhood and wonders how many injuries she’d sustain if she jumped out of the window.

“Don’t you have to get ready too?” Skye asks, trying not to sound too desperate.

“This is sisterly bonding time,” Jemma tells her sternly. “Besides, Raina has an action plan.”

“Also, Jemma could wear a pair of jeans and an old sweater, and Fitz would still give her the “you are too perfect and pure for this world” look. It’s so cute it’s kind of nauseating,” Raina says dryly. Skye perks up at that. It’s practically her duty to tease Jemma about Fitz, after all, as the official older sibling (by ten months, two weeks, four days, and seven hours and she’ll never let Jemma forget it). 

Unfortunately, she’s gone by the time their dad starts grilling Fitz because, as it turns out, it’s a lot harder to drive Lola in heels. She actually has to stick to the speed limit, all the way to the hotel ballroom where prom is taking place, and it sucks. “You better show up, Lance Hunter,” she mutters over the sound of Joan Jett. “Or, I swear to God, I’m hacking into your Facebook and making you the president of the official One Direction fan club.”

Skye ignores the stares when she walks in and after she shoots one of her signature glares at the crowd, she can ignore the whispers too. She spots Trip somewhere in the crowd, in full Elizabethan garb and doing what looks like a perfect quadrille with his cousin Sharon, and he waves cheerfully up at her, sweeping his hat off in an elegant bow. Someday she’ll have to ask Trip how he manages to look cool in breeches, because she’s pretty sure it involves regular sacrifices to the Bard himself. 

But right now she has more urgent problems. Like how she’s supposed to find Lance in the crowd when the guys all look the same in their black and white tuxedos. Seriously, they’re like penguins. Penguins who can’t dance. One penguin appears to be especially unhappy...she peers over the railing to stare down...yup, that’s Lance. He glances up then, locking eyes with her, and Skye waves at him, smiling tentatively and nearly dropping her clutch. A huge grin breaks out across his face and then he’s barrelling through the crowd, probably stepping on people’s feet along the way, and coming up the stairs towards her. “I’m sorry,” he shouts once they’re close enough so she can hear him. He doesn’t even do the angry cat face thing when he says it. “That was kind of a jerkish thing to do and I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“I’m sorry too,” Skye tells him. “I was nervous and snappy and I...I don’t really trust guys very easily.” For a minute, she thinks that she sees his eyes flicker away from her, but then he’s grinning at her again and sliding an arm around her waist.

“You clean up nice,” Lance leans down to kiss her, careful not to mess up whatever complicated thing Jemma’s done to her hair, and it’s surprisingly sweet, the way that his eyes always shut when he kisses her and how he skims a hand over her shoulder to trace the strap of her dress. “Does that have sparkle on it?”

“You stole my line,” she complains. “And only a little sparkle. Punk-rock sparkle.”

“Right. Want to go find the chocolate fountain?” Lance asks her.

“Does that even need to be a question?”

 

Even in her heels, Jemma is still just a little bit shorter than Fitz and she would be irritated about it, if it weren’t for the fact that this way, she can just rest her head on his shoulder. It happens to fit rather perfectly there, as he presses a soft kiss to her hair and they sway together, even if a slow song isn’t playing. “I already told you that you look gorgeous, right?” he whispers.

“Seventh’s time the charm,” she whispers back, giggling, and plants a kiss on his cheek. Fitz hums with contentment and wraps his arms more securely around her, and Jemma thinks that she’s simply, purely happy. For once, her mind seems to have stopped whirring away, all her calculations abruptly stopped, and it’s just the two of them in the here and now, as he talks about the theory of relativity. She’s pretty sure it’s going somewhere romantic.

Then her phone rings. And rings, and rings, and doesn’t stop. Finally, after all the people around them are shooting her nasty glares when they think she can’t see them, she pulls out her phone and answers it. It’s Raina and she sounds considerably less calm than she should be. “So Grant Ward might have showed up at your house,” Raina says quickly. “And he might have thought that he was still taking you to prom, and he might be very, very angry and headed in your direction right now. But I’m handling it.” That’s when Jemma spots Grant, swaying slightly from side to side and making his way through the crowd towards Fitz and Jemma.

“Raina, he’s right here,” Jemma hisses. “This does not count as handling it.”

“And he might have also made a bet with his friends that he was going to sleep with you tonight,” Raina adds, so fast that all her words blur together. “Anyway, love you, bye!” Jemma is so going to talk to her about this in the morning. Without coffee.

She cranes her neck over the crowd, trying to spot Grant, and notices that he’s changed direction. Now, he’s heading towards Skye and Lance. Oh no. Not good. Definitely not good. Jemma grabs Fitz by the hand and tows him in Lance and Skye’s general direction. Maybe if they create a very loud, very obnoxious distraction, no one will notice and--it’s too late. Grant is already there. And he’s talking. 

“I pay you to take her out and this is what I get?” Grant shouts. “You guys eating chocolate while Jemma’s here with another guy? When I give out the big bucks, I expect results!” The music screeches to a halt and suddenly all Skye can hear is Grant’s words, echoing off the walls of the ballroom until it sounds like they’re on an endless loop. _I pay you to take her out and this is what I get...I pay you to take her out and this is what I get...I pay you to take her out...I pay you to take her her out._ She can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stand there, frozen, as the whispers get louder and louder around her.

Skye isn’t hearing this right. She can’t be hearing this right, she tells herself desperately. This is all a bad dream and in a minute, she’ll wake up and everything will be okay. She pinches herself and nothing changes--Grant Ward is still standing there, yelling, and Lance...Lance can’t even look at her. “It’s true?” she asks him and she hates the way that her voice breaks as she says it.

“It wasn’t about the money, Skye,” he says urgently. “Please believe me, it wasn’t about the money. Well, maybe it was at first, but then I actually met you and I--it was you, ever since then. All you. Look, I’m sorry--I’m so sorry--but if you just listen to me--”

But she can’t listen to him anymore. So she runs. 

Lance tries to go after her, but by now there’s a crowd gathered around them, waiting to see what happens next. Fitz and Jemma are here by now, holding hands and looking horrified, and Grant promptly turns on them. “Asshole,” he shouts at Fitz. “What kind of guy steals someone else’s girl instead of getting his own?”

“Look, just calm down,” Fitz holds out his hands, palms up, and tries to reason with Grant. “Let’s not talk about anyone in terms of property and then maybe we can--” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Grant punches him. Hard. Fitz goes reeling onto the floor and now more people are rushing over and Grant is looking for something else to punch.

“Don’t you dare,” Jemma says and steps forward. She is tiny, in a chiffon dress and sparkly earrings and pink lipstick, and she is absolutely terrifying. And in one swift motion, her fist goes flying towards Grant Ward’s face, hitting his nose with a satisfying crack. “That was for Fitz,” she says. While he’s wincing, she hits him again in the stomach. “That was for my sister.” Ward doubles over, and finally, Jemma brings her knee up to hit him in the balls. “And _that’s_ for me.”

Fitz is pretty sure that he’s never been more attracted to her.

After Grant starts complaining from the floor, the lights slowly flashing over him like a particularly large disco ball, Jemma runs up the stairs, towards Lance. He’s slumped on a bench, head in his hands, and he looks like he’d very much like to break something. “No sign of her?” Jemma asks quietly.

“Nothing,” Lance says, muffled through his hands. “She’s gone.”


	10. Ten Things I Hate About You

Skye spends the weeks after prom resolutely ignoring Lance Hunter. She’s not thinking about him, she’s not talking about him, and she’s not reading any of the texts that he sends her. Or the Facebook messages, or the emails. And she’s definitely, definitely not picking up the phone when he calls. She’s on a self-imposed Lance Hunter ban, until...forever. 

Jemma comes into her room and watches two entire seasons of Star Trek with her. One time, Fitz even tags along, carrying about five pounds of snacks, and lets her eat all the Goldfish. Trip reads her a bunch of bloody Jacobean revenge tragedies and offers to make Lance sit through an entire production of Pericles. (“That’s a pretty evil plan”, Mack says when he hears it, nodding solemnly, and Skye points out that he only agrees because he and Trip are now Shakespeare best friends. She doesn’t even have the energy to come up with an embarrassing nickname for their brotp.) Her dad, who can tell when something is wrong even though she’s never told him anything about Lance, offers to make her a grilled cheese sandwich with apples, the only thing that she would eat when she was little, and insists that they go on “family bonding excursions”. Even Ms. May offers some advice and tells her, in a tone that Skye thinks is supposed to be comforting, that her reflection truly shows who she is inside.

But none of it is working. Just when she’s gotten properly mad at him, she remembers him carrying that pink unicorn around Santa Monica, and the glitter that got all over his face. Or him staring at that copy of the _Silmarillion_ like he was trying to memorize it just to impress her. Or even him running after her at prom. Then Skye finds herself thinking that maybe she should let him explain, and then she remembers that there’s nothing to explain. He was paid to take her out by the one person she hates, and there was nothing more to it than the money. There was _never_ anything more to it than the money.

Jemma watches Skye from her room next door, frowning anxiously when the angry country music comes on. “Do you think we should do something?” she asks Fitz, leaning back against him and cuddling into the circle of his arms. She’s been allowed to have him in her room, after a two hour interrogation by her dad, on the condition that they keep the door (and windows) open and report downstairs every half-hour. Fitz needs to snack about every half-hour anyway, so it’s actually a pretty effective system. Currently, in between casting worried glance at Skye’s door, she’s trying to sort all the gummy worms out by color--she’s convinced that the blue and red ones taste better than the yellow and green ones--and having her perfect organization system being absolutely ruined by the fact that Fitz keeps on eating them. But then he kisses her, sweeter than any candy, and Jemma reasons that she can work with this.

“I sensed that!” her dad shouts from downstairs. “Leave at least three feet for a non-specific deity between you two!”

“A non-specific deity?” Fitz blinks at her, confused.

“My dad used to work for the government. Lots of experience in being politically correct,” Jemma shrugs. “And no, I can’t tell you what he did or if it had anything to do with training monkey spies. It’s classified. Level nine.”

“I wasn’t going to ask!” Fitz protests and gives her the sad puppy dog eyes.

“You totally were,” Jemma’s contemplating violating the three feet rule again when “I will survive” starts blaring through the walls and the moment is effectively over. “Are you sure we shouldn’t do something? Plan another grand romantic gesture? I think we’re quite good at that.”

“I think maybe this is something that they have to figure out for themselves. If they want to,” Fitz says slowly. “Besides, if Skye wants any of our snacks, she can come over and steal them herself.”

So they leave her be, waiting for the day when she wants to talk about it. As it turns out, Skye doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants to write a particularly nasty virus to infect Lance’s computer. So she does. 

Lance knows that he probably shouldn’t click on Skye’s message, but he does anyway. Then his entire computer screen turns blue. Then red, then orange, then yellow, then green, then blue again, and he realizes it’s cycling through the colors of the rainbow, probably for the rest of forever. Lance frantically hits keys and buttons and even opens his DVD drive, but nothing happens. Finally, he hits the power button and suddenly, the colors stop. That can’t be it, can it? A document pops up on his screen and he opens it. It looks like a photo of a list, in Skye’s messy handwriting...he squints at the screen, trying to read it, and then he spots the title: Ten Things I Hate About You.

Damn. She’s certainly dedicated to hating him. Is it weird that he thinks it’s kind of hot? Lance sighs and reads on.

1.That leather jacket you wear all the time--no, Lance, it doesn’t make you look like James Dean.  
2\. The stubble. It wouldn’t kill you to shave.  
3\. The cheesy pick-up lines that you thought I’d like.  
4\. The brooding bench. It’s not brooding if it’s planned.  
5\. The time when you thought Grace Hopper was a model.  
6\. The way you drive. Too slow.  
7\. The way you look at me. Too sweet--you have a reputation to uphold.  
8\. The way that you kiss. Too good. I kind of miss it.  
9\. The fact that you made me care.  
10\. The fact that you made me cry. 

He reads it over and over and when the file finally vanishes from his computer with a slight pop, leaving a miraculously restored home screen behind, he knows what he has to do. “Bloody hell,” Lance mutters. The last time he did the grand gesture thing, he had glue in his ears for days.  
***  
Someone is leaning against Skye’s car. Someone holding a sign and slouching in a way that looks all too familiar. “What are you doing here?” she demands, marching over to Lance. 

“I’m protesting,” he says solemnly and hefts up his sign. “I might have started a petition to have more than one comp-sci class in school, and for them to stop letting guys in off the waitlist instead of girls. It has about 250 signatures so far, because I can only intimidate so many people, but…”

“And why are you starting a petition?”

“See, it’s for this really amazing girl I know. This total jerk paid me to take her out and I did, because sometimes--maybe a lot of the time-- I make shitty choices, but I couldn’t quite get it right. Because I fell for her instead. Really fell.” Lance shoves one hand into his jeans pocket and Skye realizes that (oh my god) he’s actually nervous. “So I’m hoping that maybe she’ll give me another second chance? And a real second date?”

“ She might,” Skye steps forward and peers over his shoulder. “Is that a giant stuffed Starship Enterprise in my backseat?”

“I had a Plan B?” Lance says hopefully. 

“You can’t do this every time you mess up,” she warns him. “You’re going to run out of causes pretty quickly.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head and wraps an arm around her waist. “You can always find a new one for me.” Skye’s going to inform him that she’s not _that sadistic_ , because the idea of inflicting Lance Hunter and a petition on the rest of the school is just cruel and unusual punishment, but then she decides that she should probably just kiss him instead. Because kissing against her car, in the sun, while music drifts faintly from her radio as he lets the sign fall to the ground so he can hold her more tightly, may feel cliched in every way but right now, it’s all that she wants.

“They’re so cute,” Jemma coos, watching from across the parking lot as she perches on the hood of Fitz’s car.

“We’re cuter,” Fitz says indignantly. 

“Of course we are.” Jemma slips her hand in his and leans her head against his shoulder. “But sometimes we have to be nice and share the cuteness. Equality and all that.”

“And all that,” Fitz says, nodding, and pulls her a little closer,. From inside the car, a new song comes on the radio and Fitz hums along to the lyrics, his other hand tapping out the beat on his thigh. “Jemma, this song...it’s how I, um, it’s kind of how I feel about you--you...you know that, right?”

“I know,” Jemma tells him. “I think I always have. And Fitz?” He looks down at her, face hopeful. “Me too.” And every word of it is true. Because she wants him to want her and she needs him to need her, in that fierce, sweet, steady impossible way that only he can. And maybe, in a not too far-off future, she’ll be able to tell him just how much she loves the way that she loves him.


End file.
